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OI'IieiATj UONAXION. 



SELECTIONS 

FROM THE WRITINGS 

OF 

CONNECTICUT WOMEN 




NORWALK 

Literary Committee Connecticut Board of Lady Managers 
FOR the Columbian Exposition 

1893 



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D. OF 0. 
AUG 10 1908 



PREFACE. 



"And she said, I piay you. let me glean and gather after the reapers among the 
sheaves." — The Book of Rut It. 

" Womanhood of the future and the past, 
Thee, we salute — " 

SUCH representative writers as Lydia Sigourney, Harriet Beecher 
Stowe, and Rose Terry Cooke will long be remembered as 
women of great literary strength, who had the power to 
inspire their readers with a love for the best and highest ideals of 
life. They stand forth, also, pre-eminently as Connecticut women. 
Living in their native State, identified with its interests, giving 
generously of their labor, they leave a memory which must always be 
dear to every true daughter of Connecticut. Although the life work 
of these wonderful women is accomplished, and we have only the 
lessons of their teachings as treasured in their volumes, we have still 
many of whose literary talent Connecticut may justly be proud. It 
has been our object to gather in less perishable form, some of the 
fugitive writings of these women. We fear lest through inadvertence 
we may have failed to secure all the treasures which rightfully 
belong to this collection ; if so, we regret it, and beg the indulgence 
of those whom we have not reached in our appeal for the repre- 
sentative work which this volume is intended to perpetuate. 

We wish to acknowledge the kindly sympathy extended to us by 
all those whose writings make up this volume. Our labors have 
been lightened and brightened by their encouraging words, and 
what might have proved a severe tax on strength and patience, 
through their good will and ready courtesy, has become a labor 

of love. 

J. L. G. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

THE BIRTHPLACE OF COMMODORE HULL. 

By Jane De Forest Shelton. Harper s Magazine, \%()2 .... i 



HOW THE TORIES BROKE UP "MEETING." 

By Emma W. Demerritt. St. Nieko/as, 1884 8 

FAILURE. 

By Annie Eliot. American Magazine, 1888 13 

AN OVERDOSE OF HASHEESH. 
By Mary C. HuNGERFORD. Popular Seienee Monthly, \^%2 ... 14 

THE PETRIFIED FERN. 
By Mary Bolles Branch 21 

CAMELEON. 

By Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. The Epoch 22 

WORLD MUSIC. 

By Frances Louisa Bushnell. Scribners Magazine 28 

A CHAPTER FROM THE HISTORY OF WATERBURY. 
By Sarah J. Prichard. To be published by Price, Lee & Co. . . 29 

MY LADY LOVE. 

By Mary Ferry. Independent, 1879 44 

FOUR O'CLOCK. 

By Harriet Emma George. Atlantic Monthly 44 



vi Contents. 

PETER-PATRICK. 

By Sarah Pratt McLean Greene. St. Nicholas 46 

PUZZLED. 

By Annie Trumbull Slosson 55 

THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 
By Mrs. Z. B. Gustafson, from " Bard of Abbotsford." Harper s 

Montldy 57 

THE SILVER GIRDLE. 

By Annie Eliot. Nczv England Magazine •. . 61 

THE MISSION OF EDUCATED WOMEN. 

By Mrs. M. F. Armstrong. Popular Science Monthly 76 

STANDING WATCH. 

By Julie Merrell. Lend a Hand. 1892 84 

HISTORIC NEW LONDON. 

By Charlotte W. HOLl.OWAY. New England Magazine, \%^6 . . 85 

QUAM. 
By Jane Gay Fuller. Harper's Magazine 106 

A WINTER MORNING. 

By MAR^■ Ferry. Independent, iSSo 119 

DE MASSA OB DE SHEEP FOL'. 
By Sarah Pr.\tt McLean Greene 120 

THEY SAW NO MAN SAVE JESUS ONLY. 
By Sarah R. Trumbull. Hartford Courant 121 

FOR HER KING'S SAKE. 

By Helen Evertson Smith. Springfield Republican 122 



Contents. vii 

THE RECORD. 
Bv Ellen V. Talbot 140 

PRISCILLA. 

By Pauline Wesley. (Edith Stowe.) Youth's Companion . . 141 ' 

SPRINGTIME. 
By Eliza J. Stephens 147 

A PRACTICAL SUGGESTION. 
By Ella W. Ormsby. T/ie Sc/ioo/ 148 

THE DYING DAY. 

By Bertha Hirsch. T/u- Record 149 

A MOTHERS DUTY IN MENTAL CHILD TRAINING. 

By Jessica WoLCOTT Allen. Mot/ters Nursery Guide .... 150 

THE TWO BOATS. 
By Ellen V. Talbot 153 

A PISTOL SHOT. 

By Kate Foote. Century Magazine 1 54 — 

SOCIETY FIBS, OR THE STORY OF A WHITE LIE. 

By Rose Porter. New Yor/c Observer 178 

A WINTER SONG. 

By Jessica Wolcott Allen. Boston Cominonweatt/i .... 184 

THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 

By Catherine Carrington. Attantic Montldy 185 

THE DIFFERENCE. 

By Ellen V. Talbot. Tlic Advocate and Guardian 194 

THREE DAYS OF TERROR. 
By Ellen Earned. Harper's Magasinc, \2,6() 195 



viii Contents. 

THE MILLER OF DEE. 

By Eva S. Ogden. (Mrs. D. Lambert.) St. Nicholas .... 216 

ME AND BOB AND JIM. 
By Ada S. Shelton. Tlie Chitrchman 218 

WAITING. 

By Agnes L. Mitchell. Youth's Covipanion 219 

PATTY RUTTER. 
By Sarah J. Prichard. Christian Unioti 220 

LIFE AND LOVE. 
By Elizabeth Bullard 225 

THE DETERIORATION OF MR. AND MRS. THADDEUS 

JONES. By Margaret L. Knapp. Independent 228 

TO AN OLD GUITAR. 
By Annie Louise Brackenridge. Century, 1892 236 

ACROSS THE CHIMNEY TOPS. 
By Agnes L. Mitchell. Youth's Companion 237 

PAPER WRITTEN BY MRS. S. D. HOLLY, 

And prepared by request for a re-union of the Pupils of the 

Hartford Female Seminar)- 238 

MISS PHOEBE'S VALENTINE. 

By Constance Goddard Du Bois. Home Maker, i2,gi . . . 243 

LIFE AND LOVE. 

By Jessica Wolcott Allen. Good Cheer, li?,^ 250 

AN ISOLATED FACT FOR THANKSGIVING. 
By Annie A. Preston. Hartford Courant 251 



Contents. ix 

THE EVER RESTLESS. 

By Sarah Pratt McLean Greene 255 

MOON-WIDE. 
By Mary L. Bolles Branch. Churchman 256 

SONNET. 
By Lucy Catlin Bull. Atlantic Monthly 257 

ST. CECELIA. 

By Mrs. Zadel Barnes Gustafson. Harper s Monthly . . . 257 

THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER. 
By Emma Shaw. Education 273 

SPACIALLY JIM. 
By Bessie Morgan. Century 276 

MY POSSIBLE SELF. 
By Delia Lyman Potter 277 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF COMMODORE HULL. 

BY JANE DE FOREST SHELTON. 

\Harper's Magazine, 1892.] 

IF the portrait of some grandam who lived in the early days of 
the century could " materialize," and stepping down, take her 
place beside the "tailor-made girl" of to-day, the difference 
would be no more marked than that between the good ship Coiisti- 
ttUion and a modern "ocean greyhound." Nevertheless, in spite of 
the top-heaviness of the old ship as compared with the new, if the 
two sailed down our harbor, there would be no necessity for an order 
of " hats off," and our heart-beats would tell us for which rang out 
the "three times three." 

Well does this great foremother of ours command both love and 
reverence. Stanch was she with the strength of oak from the forest 
primeval ; unwavering ever as the polestar in the path of duty ; and 
like a true woman of the olden time, ere "rights" and "suffrage" 
had lifted their heads from the nether chaos, she obeyed her master, 
while he, true and brave man of the olden time that he was, loved 
and honored her. 

The last century had nearly finished its final decade ere the 
young United States made any effort to organize a navy. A few 
frigates were then built, and in 1798 Isaac Hull was appointed to 
one of them, with the rank of lieutenant in the navy. He had 
grown up in the merchant service, and at the mature age of nineteen 
commanded a ship and made a voyage to London. When called to 
serve his country he was twenty-five years of age, and a distinguished 
shipmaster in New York. With the opening of the new century 
the Co)istihition first came under his control, and ever remained his 
favorite. In the memorable year of 1812 he was again in command 
of this ship of his heart, which under his direction was destined to 
win from the people of this land a love akin to adoration, and the 
strong name of "Old Ironsides." 

The war of the Revolution secured a free foothold to the succes- 
sors of the first sturdy colonists. The fire of liberty no longer needed 
the protection of an armed host, but burned brightly on thousands 



2 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

of hearth-stones, sending through the wide-mouthed chimneys the 
smoke of its incense, ever floating upward in thanksgiving. But it 
was necessary that the blaze of battle fire should be reflected on the 
Atlantic's breast ere the Union's right on the high seas was recog- 
nized. Isaac Hull not only secured for his country this freedom, but 
to him, as her representative, the standard of the " mistress of the 
seas" first bent itself. It was the cool presence of mind that is 
never taken unawares, the energy and fearlessness that admit of no 
result but success, and the strategic ability that gives the advantage 
over superior force and years of discipline — these, inherited from his 
father and placed at the service of his country, established her claim 
to be a naval power. 

Now that " the dust has settled," now that the mists that lay on 
the sea of dissension have been blown away by. the pure breath of 
love for a common heritage in face and tongue, now that the hands 
of England and America are clasped in ever-increasing friendliness, it 
is the valor, loyalty and patriotism that are honored in a man, 
whether he ranked once as friend or foe. 

In 1639 — hardly twenty years since the white-winged Mayflower 
had proved a bird of ill omen to the Massachusetts tribes, and the 
great Pequot war being ended — a small band of Connecticut col- 
onists chose for a new settlement the site of an old Indian village 
near Long Island Sound, on the western bank of the Housatonic 
River. The Indian name of " Cupheag" gave place to " Stratford" 
— in memory, according to the most pleasing tradition, of Stratford- 
on-Avon, the birthplace of some of their number. 

But in spite of the two claims of "right" and "might" — the 
patent granted by King James, and the conquest of territory in the 
Indian wars — it was found desirable, after a time, to have still 
another basis for their claim as landowners. After much parley, the 
Indians, charmed by the gleam and shine of sundry brass kettles, 
weapons of warfare, and the wonderful " white man's thunder," did 
" ingadge " to waive all right to a certain extent of meadow, forest and 
hill ranges in exchange for these alluring commodities from beyond 
the " big water." A display of penmanship followed — quaint old 
English on the part of the whites, and mystic signatures, arrow- 
heads ("all the world's akin," surely,) and the like, on the part of 
the Indian — which ceded to the former the district primarily in- 
cluded in the town of Stratford, stretching up the river " 12 myle 
northward," and running seven or eight miles to the west. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticiit Women. 3 

As the colony increased in numbers the more daring ones reached 
out from the main settlement near the mouth of the river, and here 
and there the nuclei of future towns were formed. Always on the 
hill tops, not only because the better land lay there, but because the 
low lands were skirted by the river, which was the red man's road. 
He, in spite of treaties and bills of sale, was not always to be trusted. 

One of these early settlements, about eight miles northwest of 
the colonial centre, was named, with a clinging love for old York- 
shire's cathedral town, " Ripon," or " Ripton." In time, however, 
Ripton, growing in strength, asserted her importance, becoming first 
a borough and eventually a town. Traditional aflfection yielding 
before local pride in honor of one of the signers of the Declaration of 
Independence and the State Governor, in 1789 she took the name 
of Huntington. Her "centre" was well up on the hills, a place of 
consequence in its day, sending out into the world many an illustri- 
ous son. Lesser settlements were formed within her limits, and she 
even attained to the dignity and importance of having her own 
seaport. The Indian, facing the inevitable, disturbed by the pio- 
neer's axe and the plash of his millwheel, had retreated. At the 
riverside, four miles over and down the hills by the king's highway, 
a cluster of houses came into being. Here the river, coming down 
from between the northern hills, makes a long sweep eastward, and 
on its southern bank, back of the little docks called " The Landing," 
and the wide road bordered with elm trees, stands the line of houses, 
with quaint roofs, hipped and gabled, friendly in their nearness. 
Beyond them to the eastward rises a rocky wooded hillside called 
the Point of Rocks, and there the river, after receiving in its wide 
arms the lesser Naugatuck, makes a sharp turn southward on its 
winding way to the open Sound. 

Across the river from the Point of Rocks is Derbv Landing, or, 
as it was more generall}' termed, "The Narrows." Derby was 
settled soon after Stratford, and in time it, too, had found the river- 
side safe, and being at the head of tide-water, its commerce was 
early established. It became the base for supplies for the back 
country, a port whose vessels sailed to all parts of the world, and 
whose foreign trade was for some years greater than that of New 
Haven. It was a place for ship owners and ship builders, receiving 
the name of the "Shipbuilding Town." Naturally it was a place 
for captains, their homes and families, and of stores where not only 
domestic goods were to be found, but the merchandise of both the 



4 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

East and West Indies, and the manufactures of England and the 
European nations, while the docks were piled with this country's 
products for export. 

One of the wealthiest and most influential families in Derby 
from its settlement was the Hull family. They lived at " Uptown," 
and liuilt mills where plaster, grain and flaxseed were ground and 
lumber sawn for export as well as for domestic use. This industry 
remained under the control of the family for several generations, and 
on the site of the old mill one of the millstones even now lies. 

In 1750 there was born to this family a son named Joseph, the 
fourth of the name and the fifth in descent from Richard Hull, who 
came from Derbyshire to Connecticut before 1640. In those days 
a man's work began before he reached legal manhood, and while yet 
a boy Joseph Hull engaged in West Indian trade, becoming as 
familiar with the changing face of the ocean as with the hills and 
valleys of his childhood's home. 

A ferry was early established between Derby and the opposite 
shore, then a part of Stratford. Among the earliest houses on that 
side of the river was one about half a mile from the landing, built in 
1721, and sold by Yelverton Perry to Nathan Bennett in 1736. It 
was a large house with a stone chimney, a sure proof of its antiquity, 
as bricks did not come into use in that part of the country until 
about the middle of the century. The house remained intact until 
April, 1890, when it was burned with adjacent buildings. The old 
deed of sale says: " 104 acres of land in the Burrough of Ripton, in 
consideration of fifteen hundred and thirty-two pounds in hand .... 
a dwelling-house and barn standing on said land .... one-eighth part 
of I interest in] a saw-mill standing on said land, and one-half of a 
ferry-boat, with the privilege of the ferry for himself and heirs." 

This property, with more land bought from others, was inherited 
from Nathan Bennett l)y liis son Daniel, a deacon in the Congrega- 
tional Church at Ripton. When Lafayette, coming from Rhode 
Island to join Washington on the Hudson, passed through this part 
of the State, he and his officers had breakfast at this house. It was 
on a Sunday morning, and Deacon Bennett, with two little children 
in the wagon, was just starting for Ripton, when a man in uniform 
appeared, and asked if he could give Lafayette and his officers break- 
fast, and also furnish assistance in transporting the troops and can- 
non across the river. The deacon consented at once, sent the 
children into the house, ordered a sheep killed and cooked, and then 



Sc/ccf/ons from the U'^riiings of Connccticitf ]Vonicn. 5 

went to the neighboring farmers for men and teams to render the 
necessary assistance. The army had been encamped in the upper 
part of Derby, and the river must be crossed by ferry and fording. 

The meal having been served and eaten, and the crossing suc- 
cessfully accomplished, the bill was called for. Deacon Bennett 
asked if the entertainment had been satisfactory. " Perfectly," was 
the reply. "Then there is no charge ; you are entirely welcome." 

In this house in 1752 a daughter was born, to whom was given 
the time-honored name of Sally. 

There is an old story of which the world never tires. " How it 
happened" is of unflagging interest; but in this instance, as in many 
others, where tradition has not reached down to the present, only 
imagination can be sent back to that happy past when Joseph Hull 
and Sally Bennett found the world all rose-color. Perhaps their 
friendship began in childhood. Perhaps it was a case of that 
occasional propinquity which carries its concealed magic. A story 
is told of an old lady who expressed no surprise when an intended 
marriage was announced that had caused the rest of her little world 
to open wide its eyes. She merely said: "Why, of course. I ex- 
pected it. He had the Jicxt seat to her in the kirk!" Perhaps, as 
Ripton meeting-house was far off over the hills, it was sometimes 
easier to cross by ferry to Derby and walk demurely up the valley to 
the little church there ! Howev^er, it happened, as it has ever singe 
there was "a garden eastward in Eden;" and will, until the last 
sheaf of humanity has been garnered. 

So in I 769 there was a wedding in the old Bennett house — wed- 
dings were usually in the homesteads in those days— and after living 
a few years on the Derby side of the river, the young couple set up 
their lares and penates in a house built by Joseph Hull at the Land- 
ing, on land given by Deacon Bennett to Sally as part of her dower. 
This added the last one to the line of houses that have stood in 
peaceful neighborliness for more than a century, and here Isaac Hull 
was born on the 6th of March, 1773. 

The falling of tea-chests in Boston Harbor caused a ripple that 
was felt to the farthest shores of the thirteen colonies, and on July 4, 
1776, the vibrant rim of Liberty Bell set in motion those waves of 
sound that called every man whose heart yearned for freedom to fall 
into line. Joseph Hull was among the first to respond, and entered 
the army as lieutenant of artillery. He was soon taken prisoner, and 
for two years endured much suffering. Then obtaining release, hcx 



6 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

was again at his country's service, and remained through the entire 
war. His remarkable coohiess under danger, his fearlessness and 
great strategic ability, are verified by many traditions. At one time, 
riding from Derby to New Haven, as he reached the brow of a hill, 
he saw a number of British soldiers coming toward him. He was 
alone and unarmed ; he stopped his horse an instant, turned and 
beckoned as if signalling a force to follow him, then riding forward, 
demanded the swords of the soldiers, which, as they expected the 
immediate arrival of his re-enforcement, were at once surrendered. 

Those were days for stout-hearted women as well as men, and 
Sally Hull was a brave example when her husband started on the long 
march for liberty, leaving her and three little boys, Isaac, the second 
son, being in his fourth )^ear. She must have borne a patient heart 
during the weary years of his imprisonment, and the courage of the 
day was necessary on being left again and again to await the unknown 
result while he bore his part in the great struggle. Nor were the 
women and children in the quiet homes always in safety. The sight 
of the enemy's red coat and the tramp of his footstep were to be 
watched and listened for. New Haven was plundered and Fairfield 
burned, and whose turn might come next none could tell. 

Undoubtedly a boy's instincts arc always a boy's instincts, but 
the age in which he lives bends them one way or another. Isaac 
Hull was ten years old when peace was declared, and the long record 
of his father's endurance, heroism, fearlessly meeting and successfully 
outwitting the enemy, must have done much to mould the boy for 
the future. Inheritance, strengthened by a noble example, called to 
the front the high qualities that told for his country's gain so mark- 
edly. It is easy to imagine the boy by the peaceful river-side living 
over his father's brave deeds and longing to emulate them. But his 
could not have been a dreamy life. He had an early training in the 
dangerous whaling expeditions on Long Island Sound in open boats, 
where courage and boldness of action, following a quick perception, 
were early instilled. That " the child is father of the man " is again 
abundantly proved. 

The old houses speak only of peace now. It is not easy to real- 
ize their " troublous times." Their outlook has changed with the 
changes of more than a century, but they silently testify to the brave 
spirits, the strong-hearted men and women, and children too, to whom 
the blue sky and shining river and the outlines of the green hills 
looked as they do now, though mechanical progress and the modern 



Select ions from the Writings oj Conncctiettt Women. 7 

gods of steam and electricity have transformed all else. Wars and 
rumors of wars have echoed round them, as 1812, 1848, 1861-65, 
have left their marks on other parts of the great country ; but their 
peril was when the nation was born, and they have witnessed since 
only an ever-increasing freedom as the art of war has given place to 
the arts of peace. 

That "the course of empire" is "westward" is well proved. 
Equally true it is that despite its "course" the i-Z/c of empire remains. 
Who can count the Jerusalems from Melchizedek till to-day ? How 
many Troys did Schliemann find ere he reached that of Priam ? 
Though the United States is but learning to count its centuries, 
while the older nations sum up their millenniums, still it is verified. 
Cupheag was followed by Stratford. The Paugassett settlement at 
Derby, and the kindred Pootauck one, where old Ripton's youngest 
child, the borough of Shelton, now lies, and the old Indian fields and 
forts on the point between the two, where busy Birmingham long 
since established her reputation for industry, ,lift their voices in evi- 
dence. It is not possible to measure the distance between a cluster 
of wigwams on the quiet hillside and the long lines of brick factories 
with their din and roar ; but when the turning of the soil puts a stone 
pestle or arrow-head into the white hand of to-day, it feels the touch 
of the red brother's. "We measure time by heart-throbs, not by 
figures on the dial." 

In many things the aim of the present is to reproduce the past. 
But the line and plummet of the most faithful of architects can no more 
make the new house like the old model than the theatrical make-up 
can transform the young man into an old one. The result may be 
admired as a work of art, but it is not nature. The touch of time 
gives a sag to the tent pole, a suggestion of vvaviness in outline, and 
a rounding of angles that the tool of man tries in vain to reproduce. 
And the old house has a human interest that cannot be obtained by 
opening a wide door and letting out a troop of children to play on 
the porch. It is like a man full of years and honors, v^^hose mental 
vision sees the empty places filled with those " loved long since and 
lost awhile." 



Selections from the Wi'itings of Connecticut ll'omen. 



HOW THE TORIES BROKE UP "MEETING." 

BY EMMA W. DEMEKITT. 

[S/. Nicholas, ISSJf.'] 

FOR the third time little Ruth Holley stepped out on the 
broad flat stone that served as a doorstep, and shading her 
eyes with her hand looked eagerly down the road. 

" Oh, dear ! " she sighed, glancing at the long slanting shadows ; 
" It's almost supper-time and they haven't come, and sister Molly 
is never late ! " 

Then she turned and passed through the narrow entry into the 
kitchen, where her mother was bending over a big iron pot which 
hung from the crane in the wide fireplace. 

" Well, Daughter, any signs of 'em yet ?" 

" No, Mother," answered Ruth, almost ready to cry. " Perhaps 
Gray Duke has run away, or some of the dreadful Tories have 
stopped them ; and if anything should happen to Geordie or the 
twins, I don't know what I should do ! " 

Mrs. Holley raked the embers forward and threw a fresh log on 
the fire. " I wouldn't borrow any trouble. Daughter," she said 
quietly ; " real trouble comes thick and fast enough in these dark 
days without any need of borrowing more." 

The kitchen door opened, and a tall gray-haired man entered. 

" I've put the milk in the pantry. Mother. Where are Molly 
and the children ? Haven't they come ? " 

Mrs. Holley shook her head. 

" Ruth is worrying. Father, for fear that they've been caught 
by Tories or that Gray Duke has run away with them." 

The farmer threw back his head and laughed. 

" No fear of that, little girl ! Molly Pidgin is a born horse- 
woman, and Duke may be fiery and unmanageable enough with 
strangers, but he's like a lamb with Molly. And as for being 
caught by the Tories, — why, I'd just like to see 'em do it, that's all ! 
There isn't a horse in these parts that can keep within sight of 
Duke's heels. I knew his value well when I gave him to Molly for 
a wedding gift. And they are well matched for spirit ! " 

" I wish Molly had less spirit, Father, for then when Edward 
went away, she would have come up here to stay with us," returned 



Selections front. Ihc ]]~riti)igs oj Connecticut J I 'omen. g 

Mrs. Holley. " Middlesex is no place for her; it's a perfect nest of 
Tories ! But we had hard work to get her to spend even this week 
with us ! " 

" Well, I suppose she thought some of the Tories would run off 
the cattle or ransack the house while she was away. We are pass- 
ing through dark days — dark days, Mother ! It's bad enough to 
have to fight an open foe, but when it comes to having neighbors 
who are on the watch for every chance to plunder you and to give 
you over to the Red-coats, it's almost more than flesh and blood can 
stand ! " 

It was the summer of 1781, the darkest and most trying period 
of the Revolution. The campaign of 1779 had proved a failure. 
The British were everywhere successful, and the American army had 
done almost nothing toward bringing the war to a close. And 1 780 
was a still more discouraging year. The winter was one of the cold- 
est ever known, and the sufferings of the Continental troops in their 
winter quarters at Morristown were terrible. Early in 1781, several 
hundred of the soldiers revolted and were only kept by the point of 
the bayonet from going home, so that this year, too, opened most 
disastrously. The dwellers on the Connecticut coast lived in con- 
stant fear of the British, who occupied New York City and Long 
Island, and frequently crossed the Sound at night in boats, to plunder 
the inhabitants and carry them away captives. Norwalk, Middle- 
sex (now Darien), and Stamford were particularly hated by the 
English on account of the patriotism of their three ministers, and the 
Red-coats had been planning for a long time some way of punishing 
the Rev. Mr. Mather, whose earnest teachings served to keep up the 
almost fainting courage of the people of Middlesex. 

Mrs. Holley swung the crane further over the fire, and then 
helped Ruth to set the table with the dark-lilue china and the large 
pewter platters, which had been scoured until they shone like silver. 

" Hark ! What is that ? " said the farmer, going to the door. 
But Mrs. Holley and Ruth were there before him, just in time to 
see a powerful gray horse dash up to the door and stop obediently 
at the decided " Whoa ! " of his mistress, a rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed 
young woman. Behind her, on the pillion, and securely tied to her 
waist, was four-year-old Geordie, while in front, encircled by her 
arms, sat the baby twins, Ben and Desire, as like as two peas. In a 
moment, Geordie was unfastened and Ruth was smothering him witli 
kisses, while Mrs. Holley looked very proud with a twin on either arm. 



lo Selections from tlie Writings of Connecticut Women. 

" Well, Molly," said her father, looking at her admiringly as she 
sprang lightly to the ground, "you areas spry as ever. We had 
begun to worry about you. What made you so late ? " 

" I was waiting for dispatches from Edward, and they came just 
before I left. They've had a terrible winter, Father," and the tears 
gathered in Molly's eyes. " Our brave men have been without shoes 
and had only miserable rags for clothing, and hundreds of them 
have died from hunger and cold. At times they had neither bread 
nor meat in the camp, and the Continental money lost value so that 
it took four months' pay of a private to buy a bushel of wheat ! 
Edward says if it had not been for the great heart and courage of 
Washington they would have given up in utter despair. But things 
are looking brighter now. Congress has sent them money, and 
General Greene has had some splendid victories in the South ; and 
Edward says there are still more to follow." 

" You don't say ! " cried the farmer in a ringing voice, and his 
bent form straightened, and his blue eyes flashed. " Now, may the 
Lord be praised ! How many times have I told you. Mother, that 
we'd certainly win in the end." 

" But these victories cost so, Father!" said Molly, throwing her 
arm over the horse's neck and hiding her face against his glossy 
mane. " O Duke, Duke ! When will your master come back to us ? " 

Duke had been champing his bit uneasily, but at the sound of his 
mistress's voice, he became instantly quiet. He turned his full, bright 
eye on her and lowered his head until his nose rubbed against her hand. 

"Just look at the critter. Mother ! " cried Farmer Holley. "I 
thuik he actually knows what the girl is saying." 

" Edward wrote that there was a great scarcity of horses in the 
army, and asked me, in case Duke was needed for our Washington, 
if I would be willing to give him up." 

" It would be rather hard to give up Duke. Eh, Molly, girl ?" 

" I would even part with him, if necessary. I will do anything 
and everything that I can, for the sake of our country," said Molly. 
"And dear old Duke is fit to carry even so good and great a man as 
Washington." 

In a few moments the family was seated at the table, and open- 
ing the big, leather-bound Bible, Farmer Holley read a short chap- 
ter, followed by the simple evening prayer. 

The next morning, after breakfast was cleared away, Molly said 
to her father : 



Selections from the ]]'ri tings of Connccticnt fJ^omen. i i 

" I believe I'll ride down to Middlesex church. I don't like to 
miss one of Parson Mather's sermons. They are a great comfort to me. 
And I can see, too, whether the house is all right. I can get there in 
time for the afternoon service, and I'll take Ruth with me for company." 
Shortly before noon, Duke was brought to the door, and so 
impatient was he, that he could hardly wait for Molly and Ruth to 
mount. Off they went at a rapid pace, through the gate and down 
the old post-road, and Canaan Parish was soon left far behind. 

After a few pats and a little coaxing, Duke settled down to a 
sober trot. A ride of six miles brought them to Molly's house, and 
a glance told them that all was safe. Then they came in sight 
of the wooden meeting-house, with its stiff little belfry. On one 
side was a dense swamp bordering the road. As they passed it, 
Ruth glanced carelessly back, and her heart gave a great thump, as 
she thought she saw a bit of red color and a glitter as of sunshine 
on burnished steel. She looked again, but there was nothing but 
an unbroken wall of green leaves, so thick was the growth of bushes 
and tangled vines. Her first impulse was to tell Molly. Then she 
laughed at her foolish fears. " I'm but a silly girl," she thought ; 
" it was all imagination ! " 

The bell was still ringing, and Molly went behind the church, 
where the horses were fastened, and tied Duke to a tree. Then she 
took Ruth by the hand, crossed the porch, passed through the little 
entry and walked up the aisle to a square, high-backed pew. 

The young girl heard but little of the service. She could not 
get that bit of red color and the glitter in the swamp out of her 
mind. The windows were open, and she found herself listening 
intently for every little sound, but she heard nothing except the 
singing of birds and the rustling of the leaves, as the warm south 
wind gently stirred the branches of the trees. But when Mr. 
Mather, from his high pulpit perched beneath the great sounding- 
board, began to read the hymn, suddenly the words died away on 
his lips. He closed his book and remained motionless, with his 
eyes riveted on the open door. 

"Surrender or die!" called a loud voice. "Escape is impos- 
sible, for both doors are guarded." 

Three or four young men climbed out of the windows, but the 
shots fired after them warned others of the dangers of flight. With 
clanking arms a number of British soldiers, led by some of the Mid- 
dlesex Tories, rudely entered the church and proceeded to plunder 



12 Selections from the Wi-ithigs of Councclicui ]]'oincn. 

the congregation. Silver watches were taken, silver buckles were 
torn from knee-breeches and shoes, and earrings were roughly 
snatched from women's ears. 

Molly started up indignant, as a trooper pointed to the gold beads 
on her neck. " I'll thank ye for those gewgaws, ma'am," said he. 

'■ Softly, softly. Mistress Pidgin," exclaimed a neighbor; "resist- 
ance is of no use." And Molly gave up the necklace. 

Then she whispered to Ruth : " Keep close by me, Little Sister! 
Do just as I do — keep getting nearer the door — a step at a time — 
without attracting attention. If I can only save Duke!" The 
British tied the men, two by two, and, amid the soldiers' jeers and 
hooting, the gray-haired minister was dragged from the pulpit. 

" Let the rebel parson lead the march," cried one ; " and hark 
ye, sirrah, step lively, or you'll feel the prick of my bayonet — we 
must make haste, or the whole town will be after us," he added in a 
lower tone, addressing one of his comrades. 

In the meantime, Molly and Ruth had reached the door without 
being seen, and Mistress Pidgin peeped out cautiously. The guard had 
left his post to help lead the horses to the front of the church. Most 
of them had been taken, but Duke was still standing under the tree. 

The two sisters darted down the steps, climbed up on a stone 
fence, untied Duke, and mounted, but had gone only a few yards 
when they encountered two men. 

" Stop!" cried one of them, seizing the bridle. Molly bent over 
Duke, and patted him gently on the neck. Then she raised her 
whip and brought it down with all her might on his flank. He 
reared wildly, and, with a furious plunge that would have unseated a 
less skillful rider than Molly, he freed himself from his captor, 
dashed across the green, and, with ears laid flat against his neck and 
his tail streaming out like a white banner, he darted like an arrow 
up the road. 

Ruth was partly thrown from the pillion, but Molly's strong 
arm was around her, and her calm voice sounded reassuringly : 

" Pull yourself up to the pillion ! Never fear ! I can hold you ; " 
and even in that mad flight the little girl was able to draw herself up 
to a secure position. As they reached the top of a long hill, Molly 
drew rein and looked back. A few mounted men had started in pur- 
suit, but Duke was too fleet for them, and they had turned back. 

" O my brave Duke," said Molly ; " may you always carry your 
rider as swiftly from danger as you have carried us to-day !" 



Selections from the JJ'ritings of Conneciieztt Wotneii. 13 

Duke bore them swiftly up the old road to Canaan Parish, and 
as soon as they reached home safely, the alarm was given by the 
ringing of bells and the firing of guns, and several of the men 
started at once for Middlesex. But they were too late ! The pris- 
oners had been carried across the Sound, and from thence they were 
sent to the prison-ships in New York Bay, where some of them 
languished and died, and others, among them Parson Mather, after 
a long delay, were returned to their homes. 

Meantime Duke was sent to the headquarters of the Continental 
Army, and it was the proudest day of Molly's life when, soon after 
the declaration of peace, she stood on a balcony with Edward and 
the children beside her, and heard the thunder of artillery, the ring- 
ing of bells, and the wild cheers of the people. For, as she looked 
up the street she saw, amid the waving of flags and the fluttering of 
handkerchiefs, passing under the triumphal arch, with proudly 
arciied neck and quivering nostrils, a magnificent gray horse, bear- 
ing on his back that martial figure so well known and loved — the 
noble Washinofton. 



FAILURE. 



BY ANNIE ELIOT TRUMBULL. 

[American Magazine, 1SSS.'\ 

To always dream ; to let the sunlight fall 

Thro' twining boughs on drowsy eyes, nor miss 

The grace of any dancing leaf the kiss 

Of south wind thrills; to lose no scent of all 

That south wind brings from by ways where the rose 

And sweet fern spend their fragrance, nor lack power 

To read aright the message of the hour 

Where the strong tide of living ebbs and flows ; 

To grasp what is revealed, but never rise 

To speak incisive words, nor seize the pen 

And, dashing misty doubt from languid eyes. 

Make known the message one h'as learned, to men. 

Such is the fate of some ; to wake, enjoy, perceive. 

To smile, to dream again, and let the rest achieve. 



14 Sciections fnnn tJic Wrilinos of Conncctinit Women. 



AN OVERDOSE OF HASHEESH. 

BV MARY C. IIUNGERFORD. 

{^Popular Science Monthly, 1SS3.] 

BEING one of the grand army of sufferers from headache, I 
took, last summer, by order of my physician, three small 
daily doses of Indian hemp (hasheesh), in the hope of hold- 
ing my intimate enemy in check. Not discovering any of the 
stimulative effects of the drug, even after continual increase of the 
dose, I grew to regard it as a very harmless and inactive medicine, 
and one day, when I was assured by some familiar symptoms that 
my perpetual dull headache was about to assume an aggravated and 
acute form, such as usually sent me to bed for a number of days, I 
took, in the desperate hope of forestalling the attack, a much larger 
quantity of hasheesh than had ever been prescribed. Twenty 
minutes later I was seized with a strange sinking or faintness, which 
gave my family so much alarm that they telephoned at once for the 
doctor, who came in thirty minutes after the summons, bringing, as 
he had been requested, another practitioner with him. 

I had just rallied from the third faint, as I call the sinking turns, 
for want of a more descriptive name, and was rapidly relapsing into 
another, when the doctors came. One of them asked at once if I 
had been taking anything unusual, and a friend who had been sent 
for remembered that I had been experimenting with hasheesh. The 
physicians asked then the size and time of the last dose, but I could 
not answer. I heard them distinctly, but my lips were sealed. Un- 
doubtedly my looks conveyed a desire to speak, for Dr. G , 

bending over me, asked if I had taken a much larger quantity than 
he ordered. I was half sitting up on the bed when he asked me 
that question, and, with all my energies bent upon giving him to 
understand that I had taken an overdose, -I bowed my head, and at 
once became unconscious of everything except that bowing, which I 
kept up with ever increasing force for seven or eight hours, accord- 
ing to my computation of time. I felt the veins of my throat swell 
nearly to bursting, and the cords tighten painfully, as, impelled by an 
irresistible force, I nodded like a wooden mandarin in a tea-store. 

In the midst of it all I left my body, and quietly from the foot 
of the bed watched my unhappy self nodding with frightful velocitv. 



Sclcc/ious from the Writings of Connccliciit IVoiucji. 15 

I grlanced indignantly at the shamefully indifferent group that did 
not even appear to notice the frantic motions, and resumed m}' place 
in my living temple of flesh in time to recover sufficiently to observe 
one doctor lift his finger from my wrist, where he had laid it to count 
the pulsations just as I lapsed into unconsciousness, and say to the 
other : " I think she moved her head. She means us to understand 
that she has taken largely of the cannabis Indica." So, in the long, 
interminable hours I had been nodding my head off", only time 
enough had elapsed to count my pulse, and the violent motions of 
my head had in fact been barely noticeable. This exaggerated 
appreciation of sight, motion, and sound is, I am told, a well-known 
effect of hasheesh, but I was ignorant of that fact then, and, even if 
I had not been, probably the mental torture I underwent during the 
time it enchained my faculties would not have been lessened, as I 
seemed to have no power to reason with myself, even in the semi- 
conscious intervals which came between the spells. 

These intervals grew shorter, and in them I had no power to 
speak. My lips and face seemed to m3fself to be rigid and stony. I 
thought that I was dying, and, instead of the peace which I had 
always hoped would wait on my last moments, I was filled with a 
bitter, dark despair. It was not only death that I feared with a 
wild, unreasoning terror, but there was a fearful expectation of judg- 
ment, which must, I think, be like the torture of lost souls. I felt 
half sundered from the flesh, and my spiritual sufferings seemed to 
have begun, although I was conscious of living still. 

One terrible reality — I can hardly term it a fancy even now — 
that came to me again and again, was so painful that it must, I fear, 
always be a vividh'^ remembered agony. Like dreams, its vagaries 
can be accounted for by association of ideas past and passing, but 
the suffering was so intense and the memory of it so haunting that 
1 have acquired a horror of death unknown to me before. I died, 
as I believed, although by a strange double consciousness I knew 
that I should again reanimate the body I had left. In leaving it I 
did not soar away, as one delights to think of the freed spirits soar- 
ing. Neither did I linger around dear, familiar scenes. I sank, an 
intangible, impaljjable shape, through the bed, the floors, the cellar, 
the earth, down, down, down! As if I had been a fragment of 
glass dropping through the ocean, I dropped uninterruptedly through 
the earth and its atmosphere, and then fell on and on forever. I 
was perfectly composed, and speculated curiously upon the strange 



1 6 Selections f>om the Writings of Conneetient Jl^omen. 

circumstance that even in going through the solid earth there was 
no displacement of material, and in my descent I gathered no 
momentum. I discovered that I was transparent and deprived of 
all power of volition, as well as bereft of the faculties belonging to 
humanity. But in place of my lost senses I had a marvelously keen 
sixth sense or power, which I can only describe as an intense super- 
human consciousness that in some way embraced all the five and went 
immeasurably beyond them. As time went on, and my dropping 
through space continued, I became filled with the most profound 
loneliness, and a desperate fear took hold of me that I should be thus 
alone for evermore, and flill and fall eternally without finding rest. 

" Where," I thought, " is the Saviour, who has called his own to 
his side? Has he forsaken me now?" And I strove in my dumb 
agony to cry to him. There vi^as, it seemed to mc, a forgotten text 
which, if remembered, would be the spell to stop my fatal falling and 
secure my salvation. I sought in my memory for it, I prayed to 
recall it, I fought for it madly, wrestling against the terrible fate 
which seemed to withhold it. Single words of it came to me in dis- 
connected mockery, but erased themselves instantaneously. Men- 
tally, I writhed in such hopeless agony that, in thinking of it, I 
wonder 1 could have borne such excess of emotion and lived. It 
was not the small fact of life or death that was at stake, but a soul's 
everlasting weal. 

Suddenly it came. The thick darkness through which I was 
sinking became illuminated with a strange lurid light, and the air, 
space, atmosphere, whatever it might be called, separated and formed 
a w de black-sided opening, like the deadly pit which shows itself 
in the center of a maelstrom. Then, as I sank slowly into this 
chasm, from an immeasurable distance above me, yet forcibly dis- 
tinct, the words I longed for were uttered in a voice of heavenly 
sweetness : " He that believeth on me hath everlasting life, and 
shall not come unto condemnation." My intense over-natural con- 
sciousness took possession of these words, which were, I knew, my 
seal of safety, my passport to heaven. For one wild instant a flash 
of ineffable joy, the joy of a ransomed soul, was mine. I triumphed 
over sin and hell and the unutterable horrors of the second death. 
Then I plunged again into the outer darkness of the damned. For 
the talisman which had been so suddenly revealed was, as if in 
mockery, as suddenly snatched from me, and, as before, obliterated 
from my recollection. 



Schrlioiis from the IVi-ilings of Lonnecticjit Women. \j 

Then all the chaos beyond the gap into which I was falling- be- 
came convulsed, as if shaken by wind and storm. Hideous sounds 
of souls in torment, and still more hideous peals of mocking, fiendish 
laughter, took the place of the hitherto oppressive silence. I was 
consumed by a fearful, stinging remorse for the sins done in the 
body. Unlike the experience of the drowning, my sins did not pre- 
sent themselves to my remembrance in an array of mathematical 
accuracy. On the contrary, not one was specifically recalled, but, if 
my daily walk and conversation had through life been entirely repro- 
bate, and the worst of criines my constant pastimes, mv consequent 
agony of self-reproach could not have been greater. My conscience, 
in its condition of exaggerated self-accusation, was not only the worm 
that never dieth, but a viper that would sting eternally, a ravening 
beast that, still insatiate, would rend and gnaw everla.stinglv. 

I began then, without having reached any goal, and for no ap- 
parent reason, to ascend with neither more nor less swiftness than I 
had gone down, and in the same recumbent position in which my 
forsaken body lay upon the l)ed a fathomless distance above, and 
which I had been all the time powerless to change. Even the dress, 
a thin, figured Swiss muslin, was the same, although a hundred 
times more diaphanous. Even in my agonies of remorse I noticed 
how undisturbed by my falling were its filmy folds. There was not 
even a flutter in the delicate lace with which it was ornamented. As 
I rose, a great and terrible voice, from a vast distance, pronounced 
my doom in these words of startling import : " In life you declared 
the negation of the supernatural. For truth you took a false 
philosophy. You denied the power of Christ in time — you shall 
feel it in eternity. In life, you turned from him — in death, he turns 
from you. Fall, fall, fall, to rise again in hopeless misery, and sink 
again in lonely agony forever ! " All space took up the last four 
words of my terrible sentence, and myriads of voices, some sweet 
and sad, some with wicked, vindictive glee, echoed and re-echoed 
like a refrain, " In lonely agony forever ! " Then ensued a wild and 
terrible commingling of unsyllabled sounds, so unearthly that it is 
not in the power of language to fitly describe them. It was some- 
thing like a mighty Niagara of shrieks and groans, combined with the 
fearful din and crash of thousands of battles and the thunderous roar 
of a stormy sea. Over it all came again the same grandly dominant 
voice, sternly reiterating the four last words of doom, " In lonely 
agony forever ! " and all the universe seemed to vibrate with them. 



1 8 Selections from tJie Writings of Connecticut IVoinen. 

Silence reigned again. A strange, brassy light prevailed; rapid 
and fierce lightning flashed incessantly in all directions, and the shaft, 
like opening about me closed together. Impelled by a resistless force 
I still rose, although now against a crushing pressure and an active 
resistance which seemed to beat me back, and I fought my upward 
way in an agony which resembled nothing so much as the terril)le 
moment when, from strangling or suffocation, all the forces of life 
struggle against death, and wrestle madl}^ for another breath. In 
place of the woful sounds now reigned a deadly stillness, broken only 
at long but regular intervals by a loud report, as if a cannon, louder 
than any, I ever heard on earth, were discharged at my side, almost 
shot into me, I might say, for the sound appeared to rend me from 
head to foot, and then die away into the dark chaos about me in 
strange, shuddering reverberations. Even in the misery of my ascend- 
ing I was filled with a dread expectancy of the cruel sound. It gave 
me a feeling of acute physical torture, with a lingering intensity that 
bodily suffering could not have. It was repeated an incredible num- 
ber of times, and always with the same suffering and shock to me. 
At last the sound came oftener, but with less force, and I seemed 
again nearing the shores of time. Dimly in the far distance I saw 
the room I had left, myself lying still and death-like upon the bed, and 
the friends watching me. I knew, with no pleasure in the knowledge, 
that I should presently reanimate the form I had left. Then, silently 
and invisil)ly, I floated into the room, and was one with my self again. 

Faint and exhausted, but conscious, the seal of silence still on my 
lips, with all the energ}'^ I was capable of I struggled to speak, to 
move, to make some sign which my friends would understand ; but I 
was as mutely powerless as if in the clutch of paralysis. I could hear 
every word that was spoken, but the sound seemed strangely faraway. 
I could not open my eyes without a stupendous effort, and then only 
for an instant. " She is conscious now," I heard one of the doctors 
say, and he gently lifted the lids of my eyes and looked into them. I 
tried my best then to throw all the intelligence I could into them, and 
returned his look with one of recognition. But, even with my eyes 
fixed on his, I felt myself going again in spite of my craving to stay. 
I longed to implore the doctor to save me, to keep me from the 
unutterable anguish of falling into the vastness and vagueness of that 
shadowy sea of ntjthingness again. I clasped my hands in wild entreaty; 
I was shaken by horrible convulsions — so at least, it seemed to me at 
the time — but, beyond a sliglit quivering of the fingers, no movement 



Selections from fhe IVriiings of Connect iciit Women. 1 9 

was discernible by the others. I was unable to account for the apathy 
with which my dearest friends regarded my violent movements, and 
could only suppose it was because my condition was so hopeless that 
they knew any effort to help me would be futile. 

For five hours I remained in the same condition — short intervals 
of half-consciousness, and then long lapses into the agonizing experi- 
ence I have described. Six times the door of time seemed to close on 
me, and I was thrust shuddering into a hopeless eternity, each time 
falling, as at first, into that terrible abyss wrapped in the fearful 
dread of the unknown. Always there were the same utter helpless- 
ness and the same harrowing desire to rest upon something, to stop, 
if but for an instant, to feel some support beneath ; and through all 
the horrors of my sinking the same solemn and remorseful certainty 
penetrated by consciousness that, had I not in life questioned the 
power of Christ to save, I should have felt under me the "everlast- 
ing arms" bearing me safely to an immortality of l)liss. There was 
no variation in my trances ; always the same horror came, and each 
time when sensibility partially returned I fought against my fate and 
struggled to avert it. But I never could compel my lips to speak, 
and the violent paroxysms my agonizing dread threw me into were 
all unseen by my friends, for in reality, as I was afterward told, I 
made no motion except a slight muscular twitching of the fingers. 

Later on, when the effect of the drug was lessening, although the 
spells or trances recurred, the intervals were long, and in them I seemed 
to regain clearer reasoning power and was able to account for some of 
my hallucinations. Even when my returns to consciousness were very 

partial. Dr. G had made me inhale small quantities of nitrite of 

amyl to maintain the action of the heart, which it was the tendency of 
the excess of hasheesh to diminish. Coming out of the last trance, I 
discovered that the measured rending report like the discharge of a 
cannon which attended my upward way was the throbbing of my own 
heart. As I sank I was probably too unconscious to notice it, but 
always, as it made itself heard, my falling ceased and the pain of my 
ascending began. The immense time between the throbs gives me as 
I remember it an idea of infinite duration that was impossible to me 
before. 

For several days I had slight relapses into the trance-like state I 
have tried to describe, each being preceded by a feeling of profound 
dejection. I felt myself going as before, but by a desperate effort of 
will saved mvself from fallin<; far into the shadowv horrors which I 



20 Selections from the irr/tz/ios of Connecticut Women. 

saw before me. I dragged myself back from my fate, faint and ex- 
hausted and with a melancholy belief that I was cut off from human 
sympathy, and my wretched destiny must always be unsuspected by 
my friends, for I could not bring myself to speak to any one of the 
dreadful foretaste of the hereafter I firmly believed I had experienced. 
On one of these occasions, when I felt myself falling from life, I saw a 
great black ocean like a rocky wall bounding the formless chaos, into 
which I sank. As I watched in descending the long line of towering, 
tumultuous waves break against some invisible barrier, a sighing whis- 
per l)y my side told me each tiny drop of spray was a human existence 
wiiich in that passing instant had its birth, life and death. 

" How short a life!" was my unspoken thought. 

"Not short in time," was the answer. "A lifetime there is shorter 
than the breaking of a bubble here. Each wave is a world, a piece of 
here, that serves its purpose in the universal system, then returns again 
to be reabsorbed into infinity." 

" How pitifully sad is life !" were the words I formed in my mind 
as I felt myself going back to the frame I had quitted. 

" How pitifully sadder to have had no life, for only through life 
can the gate of bliss be entered!" was the whispered answer. "I 
never lived — I never shall." 

" What are you, then ? " 

I had taken my place again among the living when the answer 
came, a sighing whisper still, but so vividly distinct that I looked 
about me suddenly to see if others beside myself could hear the 
strange words : 

"Woe, woe! I am an unreal actual, a formless atom, and of such 
as I am is chaos made." 



Selections from the JVritinqs of Coiinecticnt ll^ojuen. 21 



THE PETRIFIED FERN. 



BY MARY L. BOLLES BRANCH. 



In a valley centuries ago 

Grew a little fern-leaf green and slender, 

Veining delicate and fibres tender, 
Waving when the wind crept down so low ; 
Rushes tall and moss and grass grew round it, 
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it. 
Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it. 

But no foot of man e'er came that way, 

Earth was young and keeping holiday. 

Monster fishes swam the silent main. 

Stately forests waved their giant branches, 
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches. 

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain, 

Nature revelled in grand mysteries, 

But the little fern was not like these, 

Did not number with the hills and trees, 
Onl)- grew and waved its sweet w'ild way, 
No one came to note it day b)' day. 

Earth one time put on a frolic mood. 

Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motii 
Of the stnmg, dread currents of the ocean, 

Moved the hills and shook the haughty wood. 

Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay, 

Covered it and hid it safe away, 

O, the long, long centuries since that day ! 
O, the changes, O, Life's bitter cost, 
Since the little useless fern was lost! 

Useless.' Lost? There came a thoughtful man 

Searching Nature's secrets far and deep. 

From a fissure in a rocky steep 
He withdrew a stone o'er which there ran 
Fairy pencillings, a quaint design. 
Leafage, veining, fibres, clear and fine, 
And the fern's life lay in every line. 

So, I think, God hides some souls away. 

Sweetly to surprise us the last day. 



Selections from the ]Vritino;s of Connecticut Women. 



CAMELEON. 



BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROl'. 

\The Epoch.l 

WHAT I am astonished at is your power over the confirmed 
bachelors," said Felina Drake. " You are too young for 
that ; but something compensates, evidently." 

Melly, whom some of her friends called Cameleon, was sitting 
over the fire in her private parlor, discussing her various lovers with 
Felina. Fortunately, Felina was engaged to be married, and was not 
in a position to feci envy or to watch unsympathetically the prelimi- 
nary steps toward an engagement on the part of her friend. It was 
an event which she eagerly desired, that they might be entirely 
mutual in their experiences. Felina might have been jealous of 
the Cameleon's beauty ; but the young girl was of that charming 
class of lovely women whose members appeal to their own sex by 
their perfect good-nature and childlike innocence. 

" Oh, I can tell you how that happens," the Cameleon responded, 
in her cheerful voice. "Clever Mr. Courtney told me that my face 
would last well, and that he had seen hundreds of belles fade in a 
few seasons, which had almost made a misanthrope of him." 

" Well, I think it was a fine distinction," Felina acquiesced. 
" Younger men don't think of that, and fancy that what is chiefly 
youth is downright beauty. But your precious countenance will cer- 
tainly mature to its credit, and I can't imagine you anything but 
excellent, whether time pulls your face perpendicularly or horizon- 
tally ! Plump or thin, pale or rosy, Cameleon, it will be sure to 
remain a face to conquer everybody." 

Melly sighed. 

" P^xe you sorry for anything ? " asked Felina. 

"Why, it seems rather laborious," the young belle answered. 
" You see, I have got to accept one of them — these inevitable men 
— and it is so hard to choose. There are so many professions repre- 
sented, for one thing. The handsomest and most fascinating of all 
my admirers, in a way, is Mr. Bruce-Lyman ; and you will admit 
that his being in preparation for a fashionable doctor of medicine is 
fatal. I had not been engaged to him for two days, Felina (I never 
told you that I did accept him at first), when he prescribed for a 



SclcLtious fi'otn the Writings of Connecticut Women. 73 

little cough which I quite enjoyed and would not have had cured for 
the world. But it was so lucky ! I might have actuallv married him 
and heard all my life about drugs." Melly discussed her friend's hand- 
embroidery for a moment and then continued : " I suppose I rushed 
to the other extreme after breaking with the doctor, for I allowed 
Mr. William Fenimore to give me an exhaustive catalogue of his 
qualifications for making me a good husband. He has all his time 
to himself until he inherits from his father, when he must devote 
some attention to the estates ; and he said that we could travel all 
over the world, and that he did not need any society but mine, and 
should be happy in China if I were his wife. It looked to me like 
too much leisure, you know ; and I was afraid that he had a passion 
for traveling, and that I should become a thorough Arab if I mar- 
ried him. How could I employ Redfern in Asia ? I decided posi- 
tively against Mr. Fenimore. When Mr. Dalgian offered himself I 
was very much puzzled. Here was a fine social position, in which I 
should probably have been a leader from beginning to end, and gone 
down in civic history as the beautiful Mrs. Dalgian, who entertained 
the elite of both hemispheres with such consummate grace. Mr. 
Dalgian is not by any means uninteresting. I often think of him, 
and the flowers he sent me were something astonishing, Felina ; they 
showed such imaginative taste ; and he insisted on my keeping this 
ring as an act of charity. Isn't it beautiful ? He made his family 
call upon me, and seemed to think that he had accomplished a great 
work for his century when they had paid me their respects. But oh, 
Felina, I could not endure those Miss Dalgians. I was afraid I 
should grow to be like them. They seemed to be inconvenienced 
by their ancestors, as if they had them still with them, and in a par- 
ticularly paralyzing condition, either as ghosts or mummies ; and 
they neither looked to the right nor to the left for fear of catching 
sight of one of the old curmudgeons. It was such a pity, but I 
had to tell Mr. Dalgian that I could not think of it — that I was too 
fond of the present." 

" I must say, Cameleon, that it is one of your little naughtinesses 
to keep the poor youth's gift on your finger. Just as long as you 
keep it he will think that you may relent ; and I hope you will send 
it back to-morrow, dear. Meanwhile, give it to me," Felina felt 
bound to say. 

The girl complied, pouting and handing her the ring. 

"Then there was Dick. Dear Dick ! He had no money in par- 



24 Selections from (he Writings of Conucctic7it Women. 

ticular, and his family were up-country people. But how equal to 
anything he was, Felina ! How he talked of anything, from apple 
cider to the queer old college professors when they were quizzed ! I 
wanted dreadfully to accept Dick. But he would not give me a 
single definite idea of what he could offer me in the way of an estab- 
lishment. He said, to be sure, that we should live in Connecticut, 
somewhere, at the old homestead — where I suppose the ceilings were 
rickety, you know — until he had made a reputation as an architect. 
It was very vague. It would be so nice if one were allowed to take 
a fine young man like Dick and give him Mr. Dalgian's position and 
Mr, Bruce- Lyman's reputation, with Mr. Fenimore's money !" 

" It is to be hoped, Cameleon, that you will find some one who 
combines almost everything. I wish he would hasten to the front, 
or our chance of getting married on the same day will be very slim 
indeed. I almost feel inclined to 'will' you to fall in love, in spite 
of yourself." 

"Why, I do fall in love, dear," pleaded Melly, "but something 
always changes my mind. As I say, it is becoming a positive labor 
to consider the matter so closely, day after day. It is like skating — 
love is charming, but requnes constant attention, or one ends a com- 
plete wreck somewhere under the ice. There's the hall bell now. I 
wonder if it is any one for me." 

" If it is," replied Felina, " let me wait here for you, Melly. I 
would rather go on with my embroidery than sit by while they talk 
to you." 

" It is some one I have not told you about," said Mellv, a 
moment after, looking up from the card ; "he has such a queer name, 
hasn't he? Anthony Cowl. It is quite a new experience to be ad- 
mired by a man of such a name and with a character which well 
coincides with it. Excuse me, Felina dear ; — and wouldn't it be 
funny if I came back engaged ? " The Cameleon embraced and kissed 
her friend with genuine fervor and arranged her lovely hair at the 
mirror, and then swept out of the room. She stood at the head of 
the stairs for a breath's space, and then returned to her parlor and 
put her lips near Felina's ear, whispering : " If Mr. Cowl ^w^/rt' only 
prove irresistible ! " 

As Felina sewed, she often smiled. It was amusing to her to 
guess, every few minutes how the courtship was progressing; how 
the suitor with the odd name was becoming elated, and how the rare 
young tlirt upon whom he gazed was involuntarily bringing him to 



Selections from the JVrii/ngs of Connecticut Jl'omcn. 25 

the denouement which had proved so fatal to a dozen other men, 
as if the girl's heart were Swiss machinery which could only accom- 
plish one thing, although it seemed so human. And Felina also 
gave a smile to the reflection that the Cameleon herself was acting 
in perfectly good faith, and was most eager to discover a genuine 
interest in one of these admirers ; but her good sense and her un- 
limited opportunities stood much in the way of a final decision. 

" I really don't know what to say," the Cameleon hesitatingly 
confessed to Mr. Anthony Cowl, looking down at her lapful of 
black lace, as she locked her fingers together. " I do like you so 
much ; and I think your mother is perfectly sweet. But I suppose 
I am awfully young to choose what my destin}^ shall be ; and 
perhaps you are a little old to be my destiny ; and then, I never 
expected to be a Mrs. 'Cowl.' It would seem so strange!" The 
Cameleon had a mental vision in which people talked about "the 
beautiful Mrs. Cowl." 

" Seems to me," said her lover, with glistening eyes and flushed 
cheeks, glad enough to find himself in the girl's presence again, after 
a miserable absence — ''seems to me it is a pity to put me off because 
my name is Cowl, and I have five years more in my existence than 
I exactly require. Life is short, at any rate, and happiness is never 
at its climax for a very long space, no matter what our fortune is. 
Perhaps if you married me your happiness would be as complete for 
as long a season as if you married a young fellow nearer your own 
age. And as for my name, you might find people paid a good deal 
of respect to it, when coupled with fine dinners and a box at the 
opera." 

The Cameleon looked up at him somewhat furtively ; but he 
caught her glance, as he devoured every motion she made. He 
became eagerly expectant. 

" I was thinking, to tell the truth," said she, " that you kept your 
temper wonderfully under a severe test ; for people usually adore 
their own names. I am sure I am much obliged to you for bearing 
with my whims, Mr. Cowl." 

" Don't — don't be so gentle and encouraging," he exclaimed, 
" unless you will let me kiss your hand ! " 

Again she gazed at him from under her lashes, while her lover 
was on the alert to spring to his feet and kneel at her side, if he saw 
her permission in her face. 

" May I — may I kiss your hand ?" he asked, with trembling lips. 



26 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

" I — I was just thinking how very — very considerate you are of 
my wishes," she murmured, but shaking her head. " I do think 
your mother is so sweet, Mr. Cowl," she added, irrelevantly; and 
then explained, with a burst of confidence, "you know what a lady 
would not like !" In a moment she went on : " Did you ever do 
anything which people told you was remarkably noble ? " 

" No, indeed. Why ?" 

Again Melly treated Anthony Cowl to a searching but subtle 
glance. 

" You're the first man I ever met who failed to tell me so," she 
said, smiling. " But wouldn't you make a great sacrifice for me ? " 

" I hardly believe I would," answered her admirer. " A sacrifice 
would necessitate my being wholly absent from you, or something 
of the sort, to strike a death blow to my happiness in you. I should 
be a fool to make any sacrifice for you worthy of the name." 

The Cameleon laughed outright. 

"You seem willing to be quite honest," she commented. " But, 
Mr. Cowl, aren't you afraid to become engaged to me, even if I am 
to be persuaded, considering that I have changed my mind very 
often already, so that they actually call me a Cameleon ? I was 
talking about it with your mother the last time I called ; and she 
said that I would probably go on changing my mind until I was 
twenty, unless something very extraordinary happened ; just as a 
brook runs ever so irregularly down a mountain-side until it reaches 
a great fissure which hems it firmly in." 

"Well, I shall be satisfied if you become engaged to me," 
Anthony Cowl replied. " I can't ask you to marry me first, you 
know, and have the engagement afterward, although I might prefer 
it. It is just possible you might really marry me after all." 

"I suppose I am very ambitious," Melly remarked. "I suppose 
I have such a sense of my own importance that I think only of 
myself, and believe that nothing is good enough for me." 

" I certainly don't feel good enough for you," Cowl declared, 
with a little sigh. " But I don't pay so much attention to that. I 
love you with my whole soul, as the most beautiful woman I could 
ever dream of seeing ; and a woman with a look in her eyes and a 
tone in her voice that awakened something in my heart that gives 
me the greatest joy I ever felt. You're just the sort of woman to 
grow nobler and stronger every year, and face the misfortunes of life 
as bravely as if you were a Sister of Mercy." 



Selections from tlie U'ritinos of Connecticut IVonicn. 27 

The Cameleon turned a little toward him. " Why, don't I seem 
frivolous in the extreme ? And isn't that agreeable to you ? " 

" Who dares to call you frivolous !" cried Anthony Cowl, spring- 
ing up. 

" Oh, I shouldn't know what to do with myself if I was anything 
but silly and easy-go- lucky," she protested, merrily smiling. " Oh, 
I am so sorry ! For I see that you would tire of my frivolity ! " 

" If you would only promise to he my wife ! " he exclaimed, 
sitting dowm nearer to her, and gazing deeply into her eyes. 

" Bless me, I never do that ! I just consent to be ' engaged,' 
and they go to papa and have a talk ; and then, in a few days, I tell 
papa that I have been forgetting an objection, and he will have to 
manage to break the engagement for me." 

The Cameleon looked so innocent, startled, and half-amused, 
that Cowl burst out laughing. 

"Ah, well," he said, " it will not be very hard forvou to become 
engaged to me, then, will it ? That is all I ask, with all its risks and 
possible calamity. Let me hear you say that you ' engage ' yourself 
to me, and I will rejoice very much, and call every day, and leave it 
to your generosity to do me justice, and weigh my love at your 
leisure." 

Melly sagely shook her head. 

" If it only wasn't for Dick," she sighed, sinking back into an 
attitude of dejected musing. 

" ' Dick ' is of no consequence," Anthony Cowl calmlv answered. 
" Let him go, and give your hand to me." 

She had covered her eyes for an instant, but she quickly glanced 
up. She laughed, blushed, and clapped her hands in delight. 

" Why, I certainly thought that would make you angry ! " she 
confided to him, giving him a melting look. " I wonder what your 
mother could have said to you about me ! Did she tell you anything 
that we had said ? " 

" She only told me that you were in every way adorable." 

" I thought possibly she had seen how much I c-cared — " All 
at once the Cameleon held out one of her hands to her enchanted 
lover, with a radiant face and lowered eyes. " You may kiss it," 
she said. 

It was a love-match. 



28 Sr/cc//ons from the Writiiios of Connecticut Women. 



WORLD MUSIC. 

BY FRANCIS LOUISA BUSHNELL. 

^Scribner' s Magazine. \ 

Jubilant the music through the fields a-ringing — 
Carol, warble, whistle, pipe — endless ways of singing; 
Oriole, bobolink, melody of thrushes, 
Rustling trees, hum of bees, sudden little hushes. 
Broken suddenly again — 

Carol, whistle, rustle, humming, 
In reiterate refrain. 
Thither, hither, going, coming ; 
While the streamlets' softer voices mingle murmurously together; 
Gurgle, whisper, lapses, plashes — praise of love and summer weather. 

Hark ! A music finer on the air is blowing — 
Throbs of infinite content, sounds of things a-growing. 
Secret sounds, flit of bird under leafy cover, 
Odors shy floating by, clouds blown swiftly over, 
Kisses of the crimson roses. 

Crossings of the lily lances, 
Stirrings when a bud uncloses. 
Tripping sun and shadow dances, 
Murmur of aerial tides, stealthy zephyrs gliding. 
And a thousand nameless things sweeter for their hiding. 

Ah ! There is a music floweth on forever. 

In and out, yet all beyond our tracing or endeavor. 

Far yet clear, strange yet near, sweet with a profounder sweetness. 
Mystical, rhythmical, weaving all into completeness ; 
For its wide, harmonious measures 

Not one earthly note let fall ; 
Sorrows, raptures, pains and pleasures. 
All in it, and in it all. 
Of earth's music the ennobler, of its discord the refiner. 
Pipe of Pan was once its naming, now it hath a name diviner. 



Sc/cciioiis from the Writings of Comtecticiit Women. 29 



A CHAPTER FROM THE PHSTORY OF WATERBURY. 

BY SARAH PRITCHARD. 

[To be PuhVished by Price, Lee &" Co.] 

EARLY ATTEMPTS TO ESTABLISH SETTLEMENTS IN NEW ENGLAND — THE LONDON COM- 
PANY — THE PLYMOUTH COMPANY— THE PILGRIMS— LONDON'S PLANTATION IN 
MASSACHUSETTS BAY— THE SHIPS OF 1629— TRANSFER OF THE GOVERNMENT 
FROM ENGLAND TO NEW ENGLAND — WATERBURY NAMES IN MASSACHUSETTS 
AND PLYMOUTH IN 1636 — WAHGINNACUT VISITS ENGLISHMEN, TO INDUCE 
MIGRATION TO THE CONNECTICUT RIVER — DUTCH AT HARTFORD — JOHN 
OLDHAM, THE FIRST TRADER — PLYMOUTH'S TRADING HOUSE AT WINDSOR — NEW- 
TOWN'S petition for REMOVAL — MASSACHUSETTS' EFFORTS TO RETAIN THE 
SETTLERS WITHIN HER JURISDICTION — THE " FORTY-TON BARK " — THE COURT'S 
GOOD-BY BLESSING — ARRIVAL ON THE CONNECTICUT RIVER — HARDSHIPS CON- 
TENDED WITH DURING THE FIRST WINTER. 

IT IS difficult for the inhabitants of the Connecticut of to-day 
to become thoroughly conscious of the fact that no man, no 
record, no library in existence, can give the name of a person 
who lived in any portion of our State three hundred years ago. The 
attempt at making this truth our own produces a train of thought 
not altogether pleasing, and brings home in a way that is new the 
oft-repeated words. Our fathers zvcrc pilgrims and strangers. 

New England had been seen of John and Sebastian Cabot in 
1497, and, in 1498 they had sailed along the coast, and their passing 
glance had secured for England, under the reign of King Henry 
Vn., that possession by sight which England held for nearly three 
centuries. 

In 1602, Bartholomew Gosnold, with thirty-two men, had landed 
on Cape Cod, lingered a month with the intention to settle, and 
then returned to England. 

In 1605, George Weymouth found Gosnold's Cape Cod, followed 
the coast northward, entered the Kennebec River, ascended it many 
miles, stole five Indians, and returned to England. 

In 1607, George Popham, under the direction of his kinsman, 
Sir John Popham, with one hundred and twenty colonists, entered 
the same river, landed at its mouth, and built a village. Let us hope 
that the five Indians who had been stolen, were returned by this 
early and convenient opportunity. Success did not attend this enter- 
prise. George Popham, the leader, died, and the adventurer. Sir 



30 Selections from tlic Writings of Connceticttt \Vome7i. 

John Popham, died, and the weary and disappointed colonists 
returned to England. 

In 1606, not an Englishman was known to be in North America. 
In that year special interest was awakened in England in the unoc- 
cupied lands of the New World. Certain " Lords and Gentlemen " 
formed two companies, for the settlement of parts of America. 
Men of London and its vicinity called their combination " The 
London Company." Men of Plymouth called their association, 
"The Pl3rmouth Company." Both companies intended to cause 
colonies to be established in "Virginia," which name in 1606 served 
to indicate all that region lying between South Carolina on the 
south and the most northern part of the State of New York on the 
north. To the London Company was allotted South Virginia ; to 
the Plymouth Company, North Virginia. It was provided that 
neither company should plant within one hundred miles of any settle- 
ment already begun by the other. This provision serves to account 
for the lapping of the territory of one company upon that of the 
other, for South Virginia's northern limit was the south-western 
point of present Connecticut, while North Virginia's southern limit 
ran down into present Virginia. From these two companies of 
London and Plymouth and their successors have emanated the 
many patents and grants that confront the investigator with a net- 
work of rights, difficult to follow through all the complications 
arising from uncertain bounds. 

Sir John Popham's adventure of 1607, already referred to, seems 
to be the first fruit of the attempt of the English Company of 
Plymouth to settle North Virginia or New England. 

For seven years we are without a record of any attempt at colo- 
nization. 

In 1614, Captain John Smith explored the shore from Cape Cod 
to Penobscot River, and gave to the country the name of New Eng- 
land. The following year, he is said to have set sail for the New 
World, prepared to plant a colony — to have been made a prisoner by 
a French fleet, and his colony not to have been planted. In the 
same year, Adrian Block, the Dutch navigator, sailed through Long 
Island Sound, and it is said that he discovered the Connecticut River, 
and ascended it as far as present Hartford. 

If we look for the motives that prompted colonization down to 
this date, we shall find them in the words, profit, proprietorship, and 
freedom in a new land to do, and, to be. 



Selections from (he ]Vri(ings of Connecticut Women. 31 

But here we come to the landing of the Pilgrims, and the strange 
story of their grant of land along the Delaware River from the 
London Company, but with no charter from the King, and their 
landing, no man may tell why, on bleak Plymouth shore without 
grant or charter, and their everlasting growth from that day to this 
— their motive, first and last, being " freedom to worship God," 
with all the profits and proprietorships possible added thereto. 

Mention should here be made of merchant Thomas Weston's 
seventy-five men, gathered in 1622 from the streets of London, and 
planted at Wessaguscus, now Weymouth, where they disagreed with 
the Indians, and, being unwholesome members of society, were 
aided, most willingly, by the men of Plymouth in their return to 
England; of Thomas Morton and his followers, who came in the 
same year, and whose yet-to-be-told history we may not follow, from 
the time when Miles Standish paid him a visit and sent him across 
the sea, down to 1630, when he was again returned to England by 
the Massachusetts Bay Company, his goods confiscated to pay his 
debts and expenses and for "a canoe he unjustly took from the 
natives, and his house burned down to the ground in the sight of 
the Indians, for their satisfaction for many wrongs he had done 
them from time to time." The above is from the Records of Mas- 
sachusetts, while a modern historian tells us that the accusation 
against him "seems to have been based upon the fact that he used 
the Book of Common Prayer," but the Records give us no hint that 
he prayed at all. 

Soon after the Pilgrims were established, fishing-vessels began 
to visit the coast. They were sent out by English merchants, and 
were, apparently, the heralds of the great Puritan colonization 
scheme. A fishing village began to grow on Cape Ann, but it did 
not thrive. Troubles came upon it, which were softened by the 
ministrations of Mr. Roger Conant. Thus early we come upon a 
trail that leads directly to our Waterbury, for, in 1771, Dr. Roger 
Conant, the grandson in the fifth generation of this Mr. Roger 
Conant, settler at Salem, before 1628, came to Waterbury, where he 
married in 1774 Elizabeth, daughter of "Thomas Bronson, Esq.," 
and died during the war of the Revolution, on Long Island. Mr. 
Roger Conant, by appointment of the owners in England, became 
the leader of the settlement. The English capitalists soon grew 
weary of their unprofitable adventure, and withdrew from it, leaving 
the little colony of fishermen and planters ashore, and adrift from 



32 Selections frotn tlic Writings of Connecticut Women. 

help. Roger Conant stood by and drew them away from Cape 
Ann to Indian Nahumkceke, often called Naumkeag;, and now 
Salem. When the Puritans came to New England, these men from 
Cape Ann were already in possession, and are the old planters so 
often referred to, and to whom special rights adhered because of their 
possessive priority — the beaver trade and the raising of tobacco 
being of the number. 

There was another venture made that deserves mention, that of 
Captain Wollaston, who, about the year 1625, brought over a com- 
pany of " indented " white servants ; but not finding a market for 
their labor he, it is said, after a tarry at Mount Wollaston, other- 
wise Morton's Merry Mount, and now Braintree, "carried them to 
Virginia and sold them [their labor] there." 

Thus it is found that the only band of immigrants that had held 
to the soil, despite every disadvantage, had been the Pilgrims of 
Plymouth, and they had lived largely on things invisible to Lords of 
Trade in England or elsewhere. This little band of one hundred 
and one in 1620, and forty-five in 162 i, had, in 1628, become three 
hundred, when the Puritan exodus began. " Mr. John Endicott 
and some with him were sent to begin a plantation, in 1628, at 
Massachusetts Bay." These were followed, in 1629, by three 
hundred men, eighty women, and twenty-si.x children, with one 
hundred and forty head of cattle and forty sheep, which set sail, 
in three ships, for London's Plantation in the Massachusetts Bay. 
It is difificult to resist the temptation to give items concerning the 
fitting out of these ships. No Arctic expedition of to-day could 
be more carefully and thoughtfully equipped than were the George 
Bonaventure, the Talbot, and the Lion's Whelp, by the English 
Company of men (and one woman whose name is unknown), who 
ventured their money in the enterprise. There had been great 
content the year before when Mr. Endicott had given himself to 
the company, and when Rev. Mr. Higginson adventured himself in 
1629, great was the joy among the capitalists. It gave good heart 
to the work. Mr. Higginson came in the Talbot, Rev. Mr. Skelton 
in the George Bonaventure, bringing with him his library of fifty 
volumes. Rev. Mr. Bright, who had been trained up under Rev. 
John Davenport, came in the Lion's Whelp. It is interesting to 
note that Mr. Davenport and Mr. Theophilus Eaton were both 
adventurers in the Puritan settlement of the Bay, and that its first 
three ministers were approved by Mr. Davenport. 



Scleii ions from the W'j-i tings of Connecticut Women. 2>i 

Besides the three ministers, the ships bore almost everything, 
including the " English Bible in folio of the last print," the Book 
of Common Prayer, the Charter itself, in the care of Mr. Samuel 
Sharp, and the oath that was to be administered on the ship's 
arrival to Mr. Endicott, the elected Governor. In their cargoes 
were millstones, and stones of peaches, plums, filberts and cher- 
ries ; "kernells " of pear, apple, quince and " pomegranats ; " seeds 
of liquorice, woad, hemp, flax and madder ; roots of potatoes and 
hops ; utensils of pewter, brass, copper, and leather ; hogsheads of 
wheat, rye, barley, oats, beans, pease, and " bieffe ;" thousands of 
bread; hundreds of cheese, and codfish; gallons of olive oil, and 
Spanish wyne ; tuns of water and beer ; thousands of billets of 
wood, beside the loads of chalk, the thousands of brick, and " chaul- 
drens of sea coales," that were cast in the "ballast of the shipps." 

To these, and other items, must be added the apparel of three 
hundred men, and the long list of the munitions of death with 
which each ship was freighted. There were ensigns — "partisans, 
for captain and lieutenant," halberts, for sergeants — muskets with 
fire locks, four foot in the barrel, without rests — long fowling pieces, 
six and a half feet long—full muskets, four feet in the barrel, with 
"match-cocks" and rests — bandalerees, each with a bullet bag — 
horn flasks, to hold a pound apiece — " cosletts," pikes and half 
pikes — barrels of powder and small shot — eight pieces of land ord- 
nance, for the fort — whole culverings — dcmiculverings — sackers and 
iron drakes — great shot, and drums — with a sword, and a belt for 
every one of the three hundred men. 

After this manner was carried on the great Puritan exodus be- 
tween 1630 and 1640. Time and space have been given to the 
three ships named, because Waterbury is, in a certain wa)^ linked 
to them in its history. Their passengers came under the conduct 
of a close corporation, fully entitled to govern and make its own 
laws, subject only to the Crown of England. The Governor and 
Council of Massachusetts Bay, in Neiv England, came, governed 
most minutely by the General Court of the Governor and Company 
of the Massachusetts Bay, /// London — and many of the laws, the 
severity of which has hung like a pall over the memory of Puritan 
and Pilgrim, will be found to have been imposed upon them by the 
power that lay behind the local government. A list of the passen- 
gers in the three ships, if it exists, will give to us, among others, the 
names of the men who came as planters, and paid their five pounds 



34 Selections frovi tJie Writings of Cojinccticnt Women. 

each for passage — the names of those who came under engagements 
to the company for special services — as vine dressers, makers of sak, 
hunters, shipwrights, iron-workers, and other artisans necessary to 
the achievement of a successful plantation. The Pilgrim, the May- 
flower and the Power Sisters soon crossed the ocean, each un- 
doubtedly bringing its one hundred and twenty-five passengers — the 
number permitted. These were soon followed by scores of ships, 
eight having arrived within a single week. 

To Governor Matthew Craddock, by far the largest adventurer 
in this colony-building, although he seems never to have visited 
America, belongs the honor of having suggested the removal of the 
government itself from England to New England. The transfer 
was made in 1630 in the ship Arbella, which arrived on June 12. It 
brought, as a passenger, John Winthrop, who had been elected in 
England as governor of the Company to succeed Governor Crad- 
dock, and who superseded Governor Endicott, who had governed 
the Massachusetts Bay Colony in this country but six months. 
There are no lists, known to the writer, of the passengers who came 
in the six ships here mentioned, by which the great emigration was 
inaugurated. 

While it is apparent that the number of men who were made 
freemen in the colony was not more than one in five of the inhabi- 
tants subject to military duty, yet we find among the freemen in the 
first list, that containing the names of those who were admitted to 
the honor on the eighteenth of May, 1631, three family names, held 
by three of the first proprietors of Waterbury. They are Richard- 
son, Gaylord, and Jones. Richards, VVelton, Porter, Andrews, and 
Gridley had been added to the list by 1634; Warner, Hopkins, 
Stanley, Newell, Scott, and Lanckton, before March of 1635, while 
Judd — and his name was Thomas — and Carrington appear before 
June of 1636 ; thus connecting more than one-half of the first settlers 
of Waterbury with the Puritans of the Bay. If we turn to the 
Plymouth Colony, we shall find there also the names of Hopkins, 
Barnes, Andrews, Jones, Richards, a;nd Stanley, while, in both 
colonies, we may find many other names that have made, and are 
making, worthy records in the history of our town, whose bearers 
were already residents in New England before the migration to 
Connecticut began. 

Going back to the statement that no man can give to us the name 
of an inhabitant of Connecticut three hundred years ago, we may 



Selections from the ]\^ritings of Connecticut Women. 35 

add to it, that the most distant recorded echo of human footsteps on 
its soil comes down to us through only two hundred and sixty years. 
The footsteps are those of Wahginnacut, an Indian. The story of 
white men in the Massachusetts had come to him, and he perhaps 
thought, in his human, Indian heart, that white men would be good 
to have in Connecticut. Wahginnacut had a good and human 
reason for his thought. As nearly as the story can now be told, the 
Indians of Connecticut River had passed through a quarrel with the 
Pequot or Thames River Indians, the outcome of which had been 
that the Pequot tribe had seized the lands of Wahginnacut's tribe 
along the river; and the hope that illumined his dusky mind was, 
that the presence of white men would restore to the native Indians 
the lost valley of their fathers. Inspired with this hope, Wahginna- 
cut traveled in 1631 from the Connecticut River to Massachusetts, 
and paid a visit to Governor Winthrop at the Bay, and to Governor 
Winslow at Plymouth, to induce migration to his noble river. He 
ofifered, in his princely way, to furnish eighty beaver skins a year — 
and this was at a time when beaver was as good as gold, and we 
have Governor Craddock's word for it, that it should fetch in the 
English market pound for pound. It was a large salary that 
Wahginnacut offered to Englishmen for dwelling in his land, for he 
added to the beaver the promise to furnish corn for the white men ; 
and yet, we iiave been told that the Indians were not husbandmen 
before their demoralization began — and this in face of the fact that 
captain, or passengers, or crew of the Mayflower, robbed the store- 
houses of corn, that the Indians of Cape Cod had laid up for the 
season of 1621. 

For a time, the proffers of the Indian seem to have been made 
in vain, for neither company availed itself of his information, or ac- 
cepted his offerings ; but two years later, in the autumn of 1633, the 
seed that he had sown gave signs of growth. Plymouth Colony 
made a venture, and, so far as we know, it was made on the strength 
of Wahginnacut's representations. The frame of a trading-house 
had been made ready and placed on board a small vessel. Lieuten- 
ant William Holmes commanded the expedition, and an Indian, 
Nattawamut, a sachem, was its pilot. 

Already the Pequot Indians had made sale of lands on the Con- 
necticut River to the Dutch, lands that had been wrested from Nat- 
tawamut's tribe. The Dutch had taken possession of a point at 
Hartford, and when the Plymouth vessel sailed into and up the 



36 Selections from the IVri tings of Connecticitt Women. 

river, on its western bank a mound had been raised and two guns 
were pointing riverward. Lieutenant Holmes did not obey the 
signal from the fort or guns, but sailed on, unharmed, to the site of 
present Windsor. There, land was bought from the Connecticut 
River Indians, through Nattawamut. The trading-house was set up 
and garrisoned and the vessel went back to Plymouth, bearing what, 
for cargo, we know not, but we are told that the pilot, soon after 
his faithful service, died of small-pox. 

It will be remembered that this trading-house was built in the 
autumn of 1633, under the auspices of Plymouth Colony. Massa- 
chusetts Bay had been invited to join in the venture, but declined, 
giving at the same time its consent to the work, in so far as it might 
have jurisdiction over the territory to be occupied. 

Through the regions usually characterized by writers as " path- 
less wilderness," it is well known there existed Indian thoroughfares, 
trails, and paths. The native Indian was, by nature and by practice, 
a traveler. lie wandered, from very love of wandering — he roamed, 
as a hunter — he visited his kindred tribes — he journeyed to sur- 
round council fires — he attended dances far and near — he failed not 
to be present at the annual games, held on natural plains like our 
own Manhan meadows, and he well knew how to mark a new path- 
way for the white man from plantation to plantation. Add to this 
the well known habit of the inland tribes of going down to the sea to 
spend their summer days in fishing and digging clams, drying the 
clams in the sun and stringing them for winter store of food, and we 
shall not find it difficult to account for certain paths that existed, 
without apparent reason, at a very early date. The path, or trail, or 
road, as it is called, mentioned in 1674, from Milford to Farming- 
ton, is a case in point. This trail was probably made by the Indians 
of Tunxis Sepus, before Farmington came into being. The Indians 
of Farmington, without doubt, knew all about the fine fishing and 
clamming ground around Milford, long before Englishmen came. 
Milford was a favorite dwelling place ; Ansantawae had his " big 
wigwam " on Charles Island, we are told by Lambert, and the tribe 
gathered there. The very fact that in 1640 it was necessary for the 
first settlers of Milford to surround themselves with a palisado a 
mile square, is eloquent of the number of their Indian neighbors, 
while at Ouinnipiac there was no need of a palisado, not above forty- 
seven warriors dwelling there. 

It was some such path, doubtless, through which, in the summer 



Selections from the IVri tings of Connecticiit Women. 37 

of 1633, the great Indian trader, John Oldham, "and three with 
him," came to Connecticut. The glimpses that we get, through the 
rifts in events, of Oldham, reveal a splendid, hopeful creature, 
through whose vision prosperity danced with a grace that in 1629 
kept three ships waiting in England for two months, while he set 
forth to the gentlemen who where the adventurers the gains of three 
for one that could be made, if certain trading powers were conferred 
upon him. Oldham deserves a monument ! He and the three 
unknown men with him were Connecticut's first traders. They 
had returned to the Bay by the fourth of September in that year, 
and it was in the same autumn that the vessel from Plymouth 
brought the trading-house into the river. 

Oldham reported that the sachem " used them kindly and gave 
them some beaver." He estimated the land distance to be about 
one hundred and sixty miles, and said that he lodged in Indian 
toivns all the ivay. He also " brought some black lead, whereof 
the Indians told him there was a whole rock." 

One can well imagine how this enthusiast, on his return, set the 
glories of Connecticut valley forth to the men who gathered to learn 
the story he had to tell. Three men (the name of but one is given, 
as " Hall ") were moved by it to set out in the cold of November, 
to trade for themselves. Governor Winthrop records that they 
lost themselves, endured much misery, could not trade because the 
Indians were dying of small-pox, and returned on the twentieth of 
January. To the imagination of John Oldham, brisk and fertile, 
and stirring with life and a very solid faith in itself, we may safely 
attribute the settlement of the valley, at so early a date. The trading 
venture of the men of Plymouth, and the overland journey of Old- 
ham, seem to have been brought about by Wahginnacut's visit to 
the eastward. The other items that we have been able to glean 
concerning Connecticut in the year 1633, are the following : Oct. 2, 
" The bark Blessing, which had been sent to the southward, returned. 
She had been at an island over against Connecticut, called Long 
Island, because it is near fifty leagues long. There, they had store 
of the best wampumpeak, both white and blue. They have many 
canoes, so great as one will carry eighty men. They were also in 
the river of Connecticut, which is barred at the entrance, so as they 
could not find above one fathom of water." 

On the twenty-first of January following, in the same year, news 
was received at Massachusetts that Captain Stone, putting in at the 
mouth of Connecticut, "on his way to Virginia, where the Pequin* 

* The Pequots. 



38 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

inliabit, was there cut off by them, with all his company, being 
eight," Within four months after the return of Hall, we find 
Newtown, now Cambridge, petitioning the court for liberty to 
remove the town to a more commodious site. On May 13, 1634, the 
inhabitants were granted leave to seek out some convenient place 
for themselves, with the promise that it should be confirmed to 
them for a habitation, provided that it did not take in any place to 
prejudice a plantation already settled. 

In this permit, no limit of jurisdiction was included, and, as early 
as July, " six men of Newtown went in the Blessing, to discover 
Connecticut River, intending to remove their town thither." We 
are left without any knowledge of the work accomplished by these 
six unknown men. It is probable that they had for a fellow passen- 
ger Governor Winslow of Plymouth, for he visited the Plymouth 
trading-house in his " bark," that summer. It is also possible and 
even probable that the tradition regarding the presence of English- 
men at Wethersfield in the winter of 1634, is based upon this visit 
and its results for a foundation ; if so, the men were not Watertown 
men who were there, but Newtown men, as is proven by the fact 
that it was not until May of 1635 that Watertown petitioned for 
leave to remove. It is well known that present Hartford was 
formerly Newtown; Windsor was Dorchester, and Wethersfield was 
Watertown, respectively named from the towns of the same names in 
the Bay, whence most of their first settlers came. 

In September, 1634, the Court convened, audits most important 
business was the serious discussion regarding the removal of 
Newtown to Connecticut. " The matter was debated divers days 
and many reasons alledged pro and con." Newtown men com- 
plained of the want of accommodation for their cattle, " so as they 
were not able to maintain their ministers." They had no room to 
receive more of their friends to help them. The towns were too near 
each other. Connecticut was fruitful and commodious, and Dutch 
or English would possess it soon. To these reasons was added, "the 
strong bent of their spirits," urging them to go. 

Massachusetts said that these men ought not to depart, because 
they were bound by oath to seek the welfare of the commonwealth, 
which was in danger, being weak, and the departure of Mr. Hooker 
would not only draw away many already in the Bay but would 
divert others from it. Beside, they who might go would be exposed 
to evident peril from the Dutch and Indians, " and also from our 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 39 

own State at home, who would not endure they should sit down, 
without a patent, in any place which our king lavs claim unto." 
The outcome was, that both Boston and Watertown offered New- 
town enlarged accommodations. The congregation of Newtown 
accepted, for the time, the offer of the towns, and the fear of their 
going forth was removed. 

The General Court had learned wisdom by the action of New- 
town, and, when in May of 1635 Watertown and Rocksbury, and in 
June, Dorchester sent up, asking permission to remove, the Court 
granted all the requests, but limited the territory to some place 
within the jurisdiction of the Court. 

A careful reading of the records of Massachusetts Bay, from 1630 
to 1636, and of Connecticut colony from 1636 to any subsequent 
date, will reveal to the reader the wisdom of the migration to 
Connecticut. 

The men who came to VVethersfield, Hartford, and Windsor, 
were not the men who could have " sat down in peace " under the 
jurisdiction of the Bay. It is well known that one man of their 
number, Thomas Hooker, could dispense "the shines of his favour" 
upon colony or continent — for, to the light of one sermon of his we 
owe the Constitution of our State and of our United States. 

We take but a step within the records of Massachusetts in the 
year 1635, before we find the wisdom of the serpent well delineated 
in the Court's organized opposition to Connecticut's first attempts at 
settlement. It squirms in the very laws enacted in that year, and 
repealed when there was no longer use for them Certain of the 
men who wished to leave had taken the Freeman's Oath. In the 
beginning of 1635, it was ordered that every man, sixteen years or 
older, who had been six months in the jurisdiction, servants 
included, should take the oath of a Resident, with punishment at 
the discretion of the Court, upon refusal — thus placing bonds upon 
themselves to remain within the jurisdiction of the Bay. If any 
resident should presume to leave without due permission, special 
laws were made for his speedy return by every means that could be 
pressed into service, on land or sea. The way was still farther 
hedged by an enactment that forbade any man to carry out of the 
jurisdiction a bushel of corn without the consent of the governor, or 
an assistant, under penalty of eight shillings, when corn was selling 
for five shillings. Another law was made, forbidding resident or 
stranger to buy any commodity whatever from any ship, under 



40 Selections from the ]Vritings of Connecticut Women. 

penalty of confiscation, without like permission. Meanwhile, the 
elders and brethren of every church were entreated " to devise one 
uniform order of discipline in the churches agreeable to the Scrip- 
tures, and to consider how far the magistrates were bound to inter- 
pose for the preservation of uniformity." This was, perhaps, the 
first open appeal from Court to Church. The battle was between 
the adherents of a "Covenant of Works," and a "Covenant of 
Grace," and we learn incidentally that Mr. Hooker was believed, by 
one man at least, not to preach a "Covenant of Works." 

It is well known that the corner stone of Church and State in 
the Bay was laid in mortar mixed only by church members, but a 
new enactment went forth at this time. It is not clear that it was 
aimed at the churches and congregations that removed to Connecti- 
cut, but there is nothing to evidence that such was not the case. It 
forbade a man the rights of citizenship, even though a church mem- 
ber, unless the particular church of which he was a member Iiad 
been gathered with the consent of the neighboring churches and 
elders. 

The times were stirring with events. The first military organ- 
ization of the colony of twelve towns took place. 

But the crowning disturber of the period was Mrs. William 
Hutchinson, who came to Massachusetts about 1634, with her hus- 
band and son Edward. With her individuality, her able gifts, and 
her undoubted charm of manner, she wrought what was believed by 
the Puritans of the Puritans to be great mischief, by her daring 
flights of liberty of belief and thought. It js hard to understand 
why the Court allotted her to be kept prisoner by one of her alleged 
captives, John Cotton, but the Puritans were a mysterious people, 
and we need an interpreter. It finally became necessary in the eyes 
of the Court to deprive a considerable number of the staid inhabi- 
tants, notably fifty-nine men of Boston, of all firearms or other 
means of offense and defense. The very permits to the towns for 
removal, that have been cited, were accompanied by an edict, under 
which a committee was appointed to imprison persons suspected to 
be enemies to the Commonwealth and to bring in, " alive or dead, 
such as should refuse to come under command or restraint." Did 
this mean such as should attempt to escape from jurisdiction into 
Connecticut ? 

This edict had been issued but a few days, when an arrival from 
England wrought a magical change in the hard heart of the 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 41 

Massachusetts Court. The arrival was only a little forty-ton bark, with 
twenty men in it, who were called servants. The bark and the men 
had been sent over by Sir Richard Saltonstall. The magic of the 
affair was, that they were " to go plant at Connecticut." The Court 
serpent at once became a courting dove — and brooded her departing 
children with "three pieces to fortify themselves withall." Two 
small pieces of artfllery were also lent to them for the same purpose, 
and six barrels of powder granted; two out of Watertown ; two out 
of Dorchester, and two out of Rocksbtiry. To these were added 
two hundred shot, all of which Captain Underbill and Mr. Beecher 
(also a captain) were to deliver — and the Connecticut towns were 
granted liberty to choose their own constable. 

There was evident haste to take possession of the new territory 
before Sir Richard Saltonstall's men should begin their settlement, 
and the colonists, anxious to depart for Connecticut, went forth 
with the good-by blessing of the Court. It will be noticed that 
there was no requisition of powder from Newtown. This may have 
been because six men of that place (now Cambridge) were already 
upon the Connecticut River, for wc know that they were there as 
early as July of 1634. Governor Winthrop tells us that the men of 
Dorchester were set down near the Plymouth trading-house (at 
Windsor), in August, 1635, at which date they had been there long 
enough to cause the Dutch to send home into Holland for com- 
mission to deal with the English at Connecticut. 

That the inhabitants were at Wethersfield early, may be inferred 
from the fact that permission was given to Watertown to migrate 
early in May, and dismission granted by the church of the same 
place to members to form anew in a church covenant in Connecticut 
on the 29th of the same month. We find also that if the inhabi- 
tants were not removed from Watertown in Massachusetts to 
Watertown on the River, by the last of October, 1636, their inter- 
est in the lands to be divided was to be forfeited. 

By the 6th of October, we learn from the journal of Governor 
Winthrop, that the three towns were ^w^t' to Connecticut. On the 
day that Winthrop recorded that fact he tells us that there arrived 
two great ships, the Defence and the Abigail. John Winthrop, Jr., 
who had been in England for a number of months, and Sir Henry 
Vane were passengers on the ships. The fame of Connecticut had 
been carried across the sea. Men of station and fortune in England 
had secured a patent and charter, and resolved to establish a new 



42 Selections from the Writings of Connectiait Women. 

colony along the banks of the beautiful river. John Winthrop seems 
to have gone abroad on this very mission, for he returned with 
authority "from Lord Say, Lord Brook, and divers other great per- 
sons in England, to begin a plantation, and to be its governor." Men 
and ammunition and two thousand pounds in money he had, to 
begin a fortification at the mouth of the river. Massachusetts Bay 
took the part of her colony children when Sir Henry Vane treated 
with the magistrates concerning the three towns, gone thither. Sir 
Henry Vane thought that the towns should give place to the new 
commission, and Massachusetts seems to have demanded full satis- 
faction, in case they were required to do so. 

It was November before the new "Governor Winthrop, Jr.," by 
the appointment of the " Lords of Connecticut," sent a bark and 
about twenty men to take possession, and to begin building. This 
little expedition was only just off for its work, when there came in 
" a small Norsey bark, with one Gardiner, an expert engineer or 
work-base, and provisions of all sorts, to begin a fort at Saybrook." 

Nature frowned mightily upon little Connecticut in her first 
efforts at life. Her Indian children had been so reduced in num- 
bers by small-pox in 1634, that the winter of 1635 found scanty store 
of corn or other provisions awaiting the emergency that came upon 
the wliite settlers when their own provision ships failed to arrive. 

The overland route was probably taken in the summer or autumn 
of 1635. The goods and provisions of the little company went by 
sea in two shallops or barks. An east wind arose in the night. 
The boats were cast away upon " Brown's Island near the Gurnetts 
Nose," and every man was drowned. Meanwhile, the people were 
waiting, not knowing why the lost barks failed them. Winter came 
before its time. Snow fell when it was only time for leaves to fall. 
Early in November it was knee-deep. Before the ninth of the 
month six men had wandered for ten days in the cold and the snow 
in their efforts to reach Plymouth, having been cast away in " Man- 
amett " Bay, on their return from Connecticut. The fifteenth of 
November the river was closed by ice, thus cutting off most com- 
pletely all hope of their provisions reaching them by sea. The day 
after the river was frozen, twelve men set out for Massachusetts to 
secure help. 

Of this journey, we have the following record : " November 26, 
1635, there came twelve men from Connecticut. They had been ten 
days upon their journey, and had lost one of their company, drowned 



Selections from the Writings of Coitnecticut IVomen. 43 

in the ice by the way, and had been all starved, but that by God's 
providence they lighted upon an Indian wigwam." 

In their extremity, and having, it would seem, full faith that 
their lost barks would come to the river's mouth, about seventy 
men and women determined to brave the perils of a journey to 
meet them. Perhaps they also had some hope of relief from the 
provisions that were sent by the thirty-ton bark for the twenty 
men, at the fort, in the beginning of November. 

They did not meet the expected help, but they found the ship 
Rebecca of sixty tons. It is not quite clear whether the company 
went on board the Rebecca twenty miles up the river or at the 
river's mouth. Winthrop tells us that two days before, the ship 
had been frozen in twenty miles above the sound, and that it ran 
upon a bar in getting to sea, and was forced to unload before it 
could get off. He also adds that the Rebecca was set free from the 
ice by a small rain. Historians tell us that these starving people 
cut it out. They arrived in Massachusetts, December 10, having 
been but five days at sea, " which was a great mercy of God, for, 
otherwise, they had all perished with famine, as some did." 

A little later, Winthrop tells us that those of Dorchester who had 
removed their cattle to Connecticut before winter, lost the greater 
part of them, " but some, which arrived at the eastern bank too late 
to be taken over, lived all the winter without any hay ; that the 
people were put to great straits for want of provisions. They ate 
acorns and malt and grains." 

The hardships and suffering of that 1655 winter have never been 
told — can never be known. The heroism of it has slipped noise- 
lessly down into unbroken silence. The names even of the men and 
the women who stayed to eat acorns and malt, or who wandered 
in snow and cold, without food, to the river's mouth, or of those 
who braved the journey overland, or who perished by the way, are 
utterly unknown. But this we do know — that of the men and 
women who had part in the events outlined in this migration, were 
the fathers and mothers or the grandfathers and grandmothers of 
men and women, who, two hundred and fourteen years ago, made 
their homes in the leafy basin that holds within its hill-notched 
rim the Waterbury of to-day. 



44 Selections from the Writings of Comiccticut Women. 



MY LADY LOVE. 



BY MARY FERRY. 

[huiifcii,/,-nt, 1S79.'\ 

She smiles, the earth grows brighter, 

The sunbeams clearer fall. 
She blushes, and the splendor 

Soft flushes over all. 

She sighs, and through the forest. 

The whispering wind makes moan ; 
She weeps, the night is dreary, 

Starless, and chill and lone. 

She sleeps, and dreaming lilies 

Float on the waters' breast, 
She wakes and happy songsters 

Rise singing from their nest. 

She loves, the skies grow tender, 

The roses flush and glow, 
My happy heart alone can hear. 

The whisper, sweet and low. 



FOUR O'CLOCKS. 



BY HARRIET EMMA GEORGE. 



[.-///««/;> Monthly.'] 



Four o'clock ; the resting time of the day ; 

Sunlight with shade a fantastic patchwork weaves; 
But the shadows lengthen ; the wind, while dying away, 

Lingers to rustle the quivering aspen leaves. 

I'm under the pear tree, sitting all alone ; 

My garden is gay with asters, pinks and phlox. 
And many a posy for others' pleasure sown ; 

But here, for myself, I have planted four o'clocks. 

"Old fashioned," j'ou say, and cannot my choice approve ; 

Rarer posies your fancy craves, no doubt; 
But after all, it isn't the flowers we love. 

But the dear old times that they make us think about. 

It's a way they have of making us love them so. 
We care not long how fragrant or gay they may be, 

But deep in our hearts they strike their roots and grow 
Tangled and twined with various memory. 



Selections from the JVri tings of Connecticnt Women. 45 

Do you see that building, yonder among the trees ? 

Years ago, it was there that I went to school. 
The master was good, but strict, and hard to please, 

And I was wayward, and never would heed the rule. 

Lois studied with me, but I was slow, 

Though she always was ready to help me if she might ; 
But Lois was early through and free to go, 

While I was kept in the school house every night. 

Kept in — kept in ! 'twas a weary time to wait ; 

But Lois would never play until I was free ; 
And I always found her down by the garden gate. 

Watching the four o'clocks closing, waiting for me. 

We left the school, and our childhood too, behind. 
But we both had entered the Master's school of Life ; 

And Lois loved the Master, good and kind. 
And I loved Lois, and she became my wife. 

The hardest lessons began when our children died. 

Drowned they were, in the river; I see them now ! 
John, whose eyes of black were his mother's pride. 

And blue-eyed Archie — my boy, with the thoughtful brow. 

They brought them home, but Lois did not cry; 

Never a sob was heard, nor a womanish scream ; 
Pale as theirs' was her face, but her eyes were dry. 

And she walked about as one who is in a dream. 

I spoke to her, and pressed her passive hand ; 

My tears flowed fast, for I hoped to make her weep ; 
But she onh' said : " I am trying to understand ; " 

And for days my Lois could neither eat nor sleep. 

Four was my resting hour, and I loved this spot 
Because of the tree, which shades and keeps it cool, 

And my boys had planted this patch with four o'clocks 
To tell me when to e.xpect them home from school. 

After they died I sat here all alone. 

Sat here and listened, knowing that they were gone, 
But the mocking wind could whistle with Johnnie's tone. 

And Archie's footstep rustled among the corn. 

So Lois came one day and found me here. 
Her smile was as sweet as ever, but more subdued. 

And her sweet blue eye now shone with the wished-for tear, 
Lois had learned the lesson, she understood. 

" Husband," she said, " I know why we lost our boys," 
And she sought my face with never a shade of doubt ; 

"They are kept for us as the master kept our toys. 
And our joy will be only greater when school is out ! " 



46 Selections from the Writuigs of Connecticut Women. 

Kept in ! kept in ! I was always dull and slow ; 

And my tasks are hard, for the world is a weary school. 
Lois finished and went home long ago ; 

She was quick to learn, was Lois — easy to rule. 

So I sit and wait for the four o'clocks to close 

While the lengthening shadows tell of the setting sun. 

For after the working cometh the sweet repose. 
And my life is closing, my day is nearly done. 

Perhaps my Lois waits at home for me, i 

As I used to see her stand by the garden gate ; 

Perhaps — if it's right to think that this may be. 
But who shall say it ? I only watch and wait. 



PETER-PATRICK. 



BY SARAH PRATT MCLEAN GREENE. 

ySt. Nicholas.] 

PETER-PATRICK O'ROORKE came down, one November 
morning, into a world short of names (he had to take that 
of two of his elder brothers combined), short of jackets, 
short of trousers, short of bread-and-butter, short of everything, in 
fact, except " biys " — or, as Mrs. O'Roorke herself tersely described 
his advent, "Anither o' thim great blatherin' biys!" 

Came into a world of crusts and gristle and bones, beatings and 
scoldings and cuffings, cold and hunger and rags, and straightway 
set out to grow a robust inch every day of his life on them, until, as 
"old" Peter, the father (there were three Peters in the family), ex- 
claimed, " The pigs in the pin, and the wades in the garden hadn't 
a show beside o' 'im ! " And when Mrs. O'Roorke, with equal acri- 
mony, had pieced him together some garments for his need, lo ! it 
seemed but a week before there were his bare plump arms hanging 
away down out of them, with an equal amount of thumping bone 
and muscle showing between the extremities of his trousers and 
those dilapidated parodies on leather, called his "shoes." 

Then nature tricked him out with such a redundant crop of 
tight-curling red hair, as though she hadn't already supplied seven 
O'Roorke brothers plentifully with that material, and his eye had a 
snap in it like a live coal, and the weariest summer-day couldn't wilt 
the roses in his cheek, and his teeth made no more of cracking the 



Selections from the ]]ritinos of Connecticut Il'onwn. 47 

hard shell of a walnut than they did of disclosing themselves in a 
broad and jubilant grin, which was the normal attitude of his 
features, for that matter. 

Mirth and mischief mixed in generously with the abuse showered 
on him through the week, the kickings and thrashings manifold ; 
and then, of a Sunday, to stand up in the church at the head of all 
the choir-boys, he — the little choir-boy surplice put on over his rags 
— rolling out praise and gratitude to God in a voice that hadn't a 
single husky or faltering note in it ! Loud and sweet and clear, clear 
above all the rest ; so that the choir-master loved him, as he listened, 
though he had to thrash him very often, at the rehearsals, too. 

But now of a week-day morning, Peter-Patrick, having already 
had a cuffing from old Peter, and a rating from Mrs. O'Roorke, tied 
up the fast-loosening sole of his shoe with a tow-string, drew a brush 
through his hair, which therefore only curled back on him the 
tighter, stuck what was left to him of a cap jauntily off over one ear, 
thrust his hands in his pockets, and started off for school with the 
air of a grand duke; it being impossible for anyone with so much 
gladness of heart not to have, as Peter-Patrick himself expressed it, 
" some sthyle about him." 

He stopped, as usual, before the house of the Hon. John Gran- 
ville, up on the hill, to turn somersaults for the delight of poor little 
Barney Granville, who, unlike Peter-Patrick, didn't groiu. Unlike 
Peter-Patrick, too, there had been jackets enough and trousers 
enough, of the finest cloth, waiting for him, and the tenderest meats 
and juciest puddings, and lands and houses and colleges and horses 
and what-not, and now he grew so weakly and tardily, as though 
he could never catch up with him. 

But Barney thought it was as good as the circus brought to one's 
own windows, to see Peter-Patrick perform there, standing on his 
head, and catching his heels in mid-air, turning himself wrong end 
up and inside out, all for Barney's benefit, and clearing the big gate 
at last with a bound : "Come, now, Misther Barney, and have a ride 
on me shouldthers ! " 

Barney screamed with delight as the nurse handed him out 
through the window to Peter-Patrick, who, setting him on his 
shoulders, forthwith trotted and neighed and cantered, and pawed the 
earth with his feet — the most villainously restive horse that ever car- 
ried rider — and landed him at last, after a desperate run, safe in 
again at the window. 



48 Sclec/icms from the Wrifinos of Conncclicut Women. 

" You'll be late at school again, this morning, won't you, Peter- 
Patrick?" said little Barney, sympathetically. 

" Och thin," said Peter-Patrick, cheerfully, "wait till they oncet 
have me there airly ! Faith, //iat 'ud be somethin' worth spakin' 
of, Misther Barney." 

" I wonder what makes it so hard for you to learn ?" 

" Sure, I don't know," said Peter-Patrick, politely attempting 
to look interested ; "the blatherin' larnin'! Faith it won't get into 
the head o' me, nohow." 

" I think it's so easy to learn," said little Barney, his delicate 
face showing against a background of many red and gold-bound 
volumes at the other end of the richly-furnished room. 

Peter-Patrick looked at him with genuine, large-souled admi- 
ration. 

"And wouldn't I like, though, jist to have the learnin' o' j'c/ 
Misther Barney," he exclaimed eloquently. 

This made little Barney very happy, and Mrs. Granville, who 
was sitting in the room, also looked up with pleasure at the 
blowzy, glowing face outside the window. " I wonder," she thought, 
" if he wouldn't like a pie. Such great rough boys always do like 
pies ;" but her seamstress, entering the room at that moment to 
ask her some question, she forgot all about it. 

"Will you get punished again to-day?" asked little Barney, 
gravely. 

Peter-Patrick gave vent to a mirthful roar. " And do ye think 
it'll be only wan lickin' I'll be gettin' the day, Misther Barney? 
Faith, ye might hould up all the fingers o' yer two little white 
hands, and ye wouldn't have enough to be namin' 'em. But don't 
let that be troublin' the darlin' heart o' ye. My hide's that tough 
jist, I don't fale 'em at all, at all. Sure they roll off 'n me like 
rain-wather ofT a duck. And I think some o' thim ought to be 
handin' in a bill, for givin' me so much wallopin' free ! Don' ye 
hear o' wan and another goin' off to the cures, to get their poor 
bodies exercised jist by poondin' and wallopin' as they pay the doc- 
thors a big price for doin' of? Lord knows, Misther Barney, as I 
feel jist that grateful — bein' too poor indade to pay the docthor — 
to git so much wallopin' free." 

Acknowledging with another hearty roar the honor done him 
by the laughter of the leddies, Peter-Patrick, with a nod, stuck his 
cap off over the other ear, and sauntered on down the avenue. 



Selections from the Writinos of Conncclicut WoJiteii, 49 

So he' met the Hon. John Granville, returning home from his 
morning walk to the Granville iron-works, bearing his corpulent 
little person along with a mincing though pompous tread that 
asserted with each emphatic little step, " I own the town," " I own 
the town." 

Him having safely passed, as he supposed, Peter-Patrick thrust 
back his curly head, protruded what was in fact a very empty 
stomach, and, instead of his own free swagger, proceeded down 
the thoroughfare with a most striking and life-like reproduction 
of the Hon. John Granville's grandiose and affected gait, to the 
vast edification of the passers-by, as well as the irrepressible 
delight of some servant-girls at the upper windows. 

The honorable gentleman heard laughter, and looked back. 
"Look a here! you sir," he cried angrily. "You Peter-Patrick 
O'Roorke, come here ! " 

Peter-Patrick turned, blushed affably, took off his cap, and ap- 
proached, very sorry that the honorable gentleman should have 
incensed himself by looking back, but bless you ! if there was a 
mad bull in the field Peter-Patrick would far rather be inside the 
bars than out. 

"You good-for-nothing miserable paddy," exclaimed the Hon. 
John, in high dudgeon, "what do you mean by mimicking luc !" 

" 'Dade thin I axes yer honor's pardon," said Peter- Patrick, with 
sweet-tongued moderation ; " if you'll belave me, I was only jist 
adhmirin' o' yer honor's ilegant sthrut. 'Dade and it 'ud be a 
sorry sight to see a grand gintleman like yersilf, as could go 
a-swhimmin' in his own money if he chuse, and houldin' all the 
highest offices in the Sthate — and that, as they all say, to the 
glowry of it — and yit wid niver a sthrut to "im ! Faith an' if I'd 
see such a one, I wouldn't be belavin' 'im any gintleman at all ! 
Be dad, thin, I have a little sthrut o' me own, sorr," Peter-Patrick 
concluded modestly, "though of course it don't come anyways up 
to yer honor's." 

Spite of all he could do, the honorable gentleman realized that 
all resentment toward Peter-Patrick was melting away in his 
bosom. The corners of his month twitched up weakly. 

" I'll tell your father to teach you manners, you young impu- 
dence ! " he managed to blare out, against his yearning conscience. 

Peter-Patrick laughed again. " Weel — weel," he added, " but 
I'm only fearin' the ould man ain't got many to tache. All the 



50 Selections from the ]Vritings of Connecticut Women. 

better luck, yer honor, for I get 'em more free-like, ye see, pickin' 
'em up on the sthreet." 

And with a genial grin Peter-Patrick returned his cap lightly 
to the verge of the ruddy curls over his left ear, and continued on 
his way. 

And as he went on with ever-increasing jubilance of heart, lo ! 
a little stump-tailed dog came out of an alleyway, and sniffed 
affectionately about his heels. Peter-Patrick looked around to see 
if any of the dog's quondam tormentors were in sight, and, satisfied 
that there was no call for immediate vengeance on that score, 
thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth a crust saved from 
his own scanty breakfast. This the dog, having, like Peter- 
Patrick, been imposed upon a community short of provisions, 
devoured greedily. Oh, but the battles Peter-Patrick had fought in 
defense of that miserable cur! battles upon battles, of old-time. 
Well, there was a peculiar quality of hardness in Peter-Patrick's 
fist. The dog had suffered little hazing of late. He never fol- 
lowed his benefactor home. They both understood that there 
was already one too many there ; but he could give him stolen 
signs of affection on the street, and that was a comfort. 

It was Peter-Patrick's habit, when he reached the culvert, to 
leave the main thoroughfare and take a new route by crawling 
through that dark and interesting passage on his hands and knees; 
and thence by a path along the cliff to the exposed trestlework of 
the railroad bridge. Here, some twenty feet or more above terra- 
firma, he was accustomed to pursue his way by leaping along the 
outmost rails of the bridge ; and though the distance to school 
was by these means considerably increased, adventure made it all 
seem but as the fleeting of a dream to Peter-Patrick. 

This morning, just beyond the bridge, he discovered, oh bliss 
of the moment ! some workmen planting new telegraph-poles 
along the edge of the cliff. And there was Charley Granville, 
Barney's cousin, and the great Judge Granville's son, with a written 
"excuse" from his mother in his pocket, with which same excuse 
he had started for school sometime about an hour or more ago. 

Up to him sauntered Peter-Patrick, gladsome as the daylight, 
though with no excuse at all in his pocket. 

Now Charley had been bragging, in easy fashion, about his 
father's wealth, and his own scholarship, and one thing and 
another, to the crowd of good-natured burly workmen ; and when 



Selections from the ]Vritiiigs of Connecticut IVomcn. 51 

Peter-Patrick came up with so much engaging swagger about him, 
and such an insufficient jacket, prudence forsook Charley's brain, 
and he thought still more to distinguish himself by making sport 
of Peter-Patrick. 

" ' Fair and square, and the witness there. Make you a bet, 
and I'll beat you yet,'" he cried in that sacred schoolboy phrase- 
ology which is the drum-call to acts of ambitious rivalry. " Bet 
you, Peter-Patrick, Pll be up one of those telegraph poles before 
you are ! " 

Up in a flash, breathless, scrambling, tearing a few more gen- 
erous rents in his woful trousers, flew Peter-Patrick, Surely he 
did look comical from that position, in his floating rags, to Charley, 
who had not stirred from his place, and now stood laughing insult- 
ingly, with his hands in his pockets. 

"Well, what do you see up there, Red-Top?" he asked. 

" Och thin," said Peter-Patrick, quietly grasping the pole with 
his legs, and folding his arms, with a narrowing squint down at his 
questioner : " It's only a little woodchook I see below there, I 
guess. Or maybe," he added, " it's a skoonk. Faith," said Peter- 
Patrick, adjusting his cap to the tip of his curls, and sending a 
still more deliberate and critical squint downward, " but I'm 
belavin' it's only a little skoonk, after all ! " 

Roar after roar went up from the group of workmen. Char- 
ley realized that both his wit and his company were at a discount. 
"You'd better come down then, all-afire," he cried in shrill wrath. 

" Oh, I'm a coomin'," said Peter-Patrick, in a tone of some 
import ; whereat Charley made no further question, but took to his 
heels. 

Peter-Patrick overtook him, and collared him with a grip of 
iron. " Now I ain't goin' to be givin' ye the lickin' ye desarve, for 
I'm jist that stronger than ye be — nor I don't bear ye no ill-will, 
nayther, ye little lyin' desaver — but I'm only goin' to give ye a 
little wallopin'-like, jist for the health o' ye." 

This Peter-Patrick proceeded to do ; but as it was not in his 
nature to give otherwise than generously, it may be supposed that 
Charley received an amount calculated to inspire him with a 
sense of considerable physical benefit. 

On sped Charley to school, breathing vengeance. His excuse 
for a quarter-of-an-hour's tardiness was of no use now, anyway; he 
tore it in pieces, with malicious intent. 



52 Selections from tht U^ri tings of Connecticut Women. 

As for Peter-Patrick, he sauntered on, at his usual gait. 

" An hour and a half late ! Peter-Patrick," exclaimed the school- 
master. 

Peter-Patrick was used to the statement, the tone, and the kindly 
ministration to his " health " which always accompanied them. But 
" Is dthat so !" he answered, scratching his head at the door, with 
humorous bewilderment. " Dade, sorr, but me clo's '11 be wore out 
on me, afore night — the time flies so on me ! " 

And having had his joke, he went up and took his whipping. 

But the schoolmaster still retained his hand : " And more than 
that, sir, you threw down Mr. Charley Granville as he was hurrying 
on his way here, and heat him, and stole from him the excuse for a 
necessary tardiness which his mother had written me." 

Then all of a sudden Peter-Patrick straightened himself up, and 
his lips curled, and I think it was a very fine look that came into 
his eyes ; not vengeful, not revealing anything— but only of silent 
proud contempt ; and he held his hand without a word, without one 
sign of pain or shrinking, receiving stinging blow after blow ; and 
when it was over, quietly turned, without a word, and took his 
seat. 

There was one seat in the schoolroom that the sun seemed to 
follow up all day, with a peculiarly blinding and persistent glare. 
This seat had been assigned to Peter-Patrick. When he took out 
his book or his slate, letters and figures shone all alike in the white 
maze of the sunlight. But he could see to whittle out tops and 
wheels under the shadow of his desk, and he sharpened slate pencils 
for them all. It was : " Please, sir, may I go to Peter-Patrick to 
sharpen my pencil ? " But often, when the day grew long, and 
Peter-Patrick's head sank down sleepily onto his desk, it was just 
wonderful, the glory that sunlight made in his ruddy locks ! 

Peter-Patrick got whipped for sleeping, and whipped for not 
studying when he was awake, and whipped when he was made 
to stay in at recess, and whipped afterwards for the pranks he 
committed when he was allowed to go out. And when he got 
home, and old Peter asked him the preliminary question, " Weel, 
did ye get any lickin's in school the day, Pater-Pathrick ?" and 
Peter-Patrick answered, "Faith, daddy, didn't Ithinjist!" never 
omitting to make cheerful mention, so near as he would remember 
as to the approximate number — old Peter, according to rule, made 
another forcible application of the rod. 



Selections fj'OJii the U^ritiuos of Connectic7it ]]'^onicn. 53 

So, often after the rehearsal of the choir-boys in the vestry, the 
chastisement for the whisperings and gigglings and mischief-makings 
of the whole class fell on Peter- Patrick's unshrinking shoulders ; 
simply because tlie whole element of sin there combined seemed to 
point back for a sponsor, to the illumination afforded by Peter- 
Patrick's radiant grin. 

Yet the lad couldn't treasure a thought of injustice or injury in 
his breast, but was out, with his cap over his ear, hobnobbing with 
the world, the next morning — loving, forgiving, forgetting. Oh, 
Peter-Patrick ! 

So much for an ordinary day. There were extraordinary ones ; 
days not only of unusual whippings, but of unusual adventures, by 
river, bridge and steeple — for Peter-Patrick seemed not to have so 
much respect unto his life but that he believed it to be a commodity 
very plenty, and that he might be easily supplied with another, in 
case one should give out in a good cause ! 

It was the last winter of Peter-Patrick's attempt at schooling, and, 
following the example of his numerous predecessors in the family, 
he was to go down to the iron-mills to work. 

" Wait thin, and I'll be gettin' ye a new gownd, mithcr," said he, 
gleefully. 

" Ye'd betther be getting yerself a new jacket," said Mrs. 
O'Roorke, mournfully. And it rankled in her breast because an 
artist, spending the previous summer in Granville, had painted 
Peter-Patrick down — red head, ragged jacket, and all — and carried 
him off to a big town, and sold him there for a thousand dollars. 
It was pretty hard, she reflected, to have a boy " so comical that the 
very picture of 'im sold for a thousand dollars ! " And Mrs. 
O'Roorke would have stood speechless with astonishment if she 
could have heard what that artist actually said many times, in good 
faith, in describing the painting — that it was " the picture of an 
Irish lad, down at Granville Mills, who had the most beautiful face 
he ever saw ! " 

Christmas day: — and Peter-Patrick had carved the gayest model 
of a boat, mainmast and foremast, sails all a-flying, that he carried 
up in his bare red hands to little Barney, on the hill. The floor of 
the library, where Barney sat, was covered with gifts, gifts wonderful 
and expensive. " Och thin, but ain't it a beautiful sight af 'em ! " 
cried Peter-Patrick, his face beaming with wonder and delight. 
Barney could not help noticing how cold and bare his hands 



54 Sc/triio!is from the Writinos of Coiniecticiit Women. 

looked. He had meant to give Peter-Patrick some mittens for a 
Christmas present, but he had " forgotten " it. Peter-Patrick never 
thought of that. It was a fact that no one had ever made him a 
gift in his life — but then, he had never thought of that. 

Christmas holiday ! — and all the lads and lassies were out coasting 
with their new sleds, Charley Granville with a* famous one, a gift 
that day, a clipper with iron swan-heads in front, and cushioned 
seats for four or more. Laughing, shouting, up and down the hill 
they went, and merriest of all, Peter-Patrick, on a plank ! steering it 
on his feet, steering it on his knees, making wonderful manipulations 
with the crazy old board, riding down anyway but the right way. 

Then Charley Granville in his excitement, chose a longer and a 
steeper hill ; it took in a railroad crossing, too ; but it was a branch 
road, no trains due except at night and morning. " Pshaw !" cried 
Charley, " no danger there for hours." 

Just as much as the hill was longer, steeper, so much louder and 
merrier waxed the sport. There, waving his cap, came Charley, a 
load of little lads and lassies filling his sleigh, tucked in, wedged in, 
piled in anyhow. 

And there, oh God ! — -around the bank that deadened the sound 
of its rushing wheels, came an " extra " train on the road, its whistle 
belching out a shrill agony of warning. No use. Fate sat like 
death on that gilded little sleigh, with its swift-flying, helpless load ; 
and with a face like death, Charley Granville threw himself off from 
the steerer's seat behind — so he might save himself. 

Peter-Patrick, returning with his plank, had reached the crossing 
at the foot of the hill. In one brief instant he marked with his 
keen eye the slight level place just the other side, and saw what he 
could do. With outstretched arms, the young giant rushed forward, 
leaped the track to wait that flying, crushing load, that precious, 
helpless load; the iron swan-heads pierced his breast^ but he 
received it, held it, barred it from death, with his broken arms, with 
his bleeding and unconscious breast. 

Aye, they were saved ; and Peter- Patrick lay with quiet, upturned 
face in the sunshine, and with that glory on his head, as when he 
slept upon his desk at school. 

For my part, I am not sorry that he will never go down to 
the mills to work, nor need that spruce new jacket ; for indeed — it 
may be Peter-Patrick, that there is life enough always to throw 
away in deeds like yours. 



Selections from flic Wri lings of Connccticnt Women. 55 

But when he lay, with his arms folded, in his white grave-clothes, 
and his features so fine and peaceful in the clustering hair that had 
been growing dark of late, they began to see upon his face something 
of that beauty which the painter saw. 

They bore him into the church for a little while too, and the 
choir-boys sang over him. But the choir-master's heart was bitter. 
Their voices were all husky, faltering, weak. There was no voice 
there now for him. He did not think how Peter- Patrick had learned 
some ringing notes beyond his scale, but only that there was no 
voice there now for him. 

The Hon. John Granville and the honorable Judge Granville, 
brothers, agreed that it would be a worthy and appropriate act to 
put up a monument to the memory of Peter-Patrick, with some 
inscription, expressive of the brave manner in which he had met his 
death. But a threatened depression in certain stocks made it 
necessary for them to make some change in investments ; and I am 
happy to say that, like the rest, they "forgot" it. 

For on Peter-Patrick's neglected grave a slender alder and a 
sweet wild-thorn bush have sprung up, and in the wild and windy 
night they lean against each other there, and it makes a cross — not 
of polished and chiselled marble indeed, but rugged, thorny, sharp, 
like the one Christ died on ; and in the wild and windy night where 
no foot passes, the infinite multitude of stars look down, and they 
behold it. 



PUZZLED. 



BY ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON. 

You ask me whether I'm High Church, 

You ask me whether I'm Low, 
I wish you'd tell me the difference, 

For I'm sure that I don't know. 
I'm just a plain old body, 

And my brain works pretty slow; 
So I don't know whether I'm High Church, 

And I don't know whether I'm Low. 

I'm trying to be a Christian 

In the plain old fashioned way 
Laid down in my mother's Bible, 

And I read it every day ; 



56 Selections from the W'ritiiv^s of Connecticut Women. 

Our blessed Lord's life in the Gospels, 

Or a comforting Psalm of old, 
Or a bit from the Revelations 

Of the City whose streets are gold. 

Then I pray — why I'm generally praying, 

Tho' I don't always kneel or speak out — 
But I ask the dear Lord, and keep asking 

Till I fear He is all tired out; 
A piece of the Litany sometimes, 

The Collect, perhaps, for the day, 
Or a scrap of a prayer that my mother 

So long ago learned me to sa}'. 

But now my poor memory's failing, 

And often and often I find 
That never a prayer from the prayer-book 

Will seem to come into my mind. 
But I know what I want, and I ask it, 

And I make up the words as I go ; 
Do you think now that shows I ain't High Church } 

Do you think that it means I am Low? 

My blessed old husband has left me, 

'Tis )'ears since God took him awa3^ 
I know he is safe, well, and happy. 

And yet, when I kneel down to pra)'. 
Perhaps it is wrong, but I never 

Leave the old man's name out of m)^ prayer, 
And I ask the dear Lord to do for him 

What I would do if I was there. 

Of course He can do it much better, 

But He knows, and He surely won't mind 
The worry about her old husband 

Of the old woman left here behind. 
So I pray, and I pray, for the old man. 

And I'm sure that I shall till I die; 
So may be that proves I ain't Low Church, 

And may be it shows I am High. 

My old father was never a Churchman, 

But a Scotch Presbyterian saint ; 
Still, his white head is shining in Heaven, 

I don't care who says that it ain't ; 
To one of our blessed Lord's mansions. 

That old man was certain to go ; 
And now do you think I am High Church .' 

Are you sure that I ain't pretty Low.' 

I tell you it's all just a muddle. 

Too much for a body like me, 
I'll wait till I join my old husband. 

And then we shall see what we'll see. 
Don't ask me again, if you please, sir. 

For really it worries me so ; 
And I don't know whether I'm High Church, 

And I don't know whether I'm Low. 



Selections fi'oni the Writings of Connecticut Women. 5 7 



THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 



BY MRS. Z. B. GUSTAFSON, from " Bard of Abbotsford." 

\Harpers Monthly. 

AMONG THE LILIES. 

Beautiful Lucy Ashton 

Lift up your lily hand 
To where the milk-white lilies, 

Pallid and slender, stand. 

O pallid and slender lilies ! 

Up, up from the margin green — 
Graceful as Ganymede, 

Stately as maiden queen — 

Rise like the shaft 
Of a fairy tower, 
Rise like a shaft. 
But bend like a flower 

Each snowy cup. 
Till the bubbling spring 

With dewy draught 

Shall fill it up. 
Bend, lilies, dip. 
And tremble, and sway, 
And, dipping, swing 
To her rosy lip 
The foam-fine spray, 
That she may sip. 

The lips that drink 

Young Love has kissed ; 
The Spring's green brink 
Is young Love's tryst ; 
And draught more sweet. 
More pure, more meet. 
Was never quaffed 
On sweeter summer's day. 
O sun, that touched her golden head ! 
O flowers, that loved her lightsome tread ! 

O breeze, that laughed 
Upon her rosy lip, and rung 
With gentle echoes if she sung! 
Are all thy charm and beauty fled ? 
Sweet days, soon sped ! 
Sweet love, soon dead ? 
Ah, no ! too dear to pass away. 



58 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



THE TRYST. 

The deer are in fhe woodlands ; 
The birds are on the wing ; 

The June hath clad in roses 

The moss-green robes of Spring. 

Fair is jroung Lucy Ashton, 
Waiting by the spring ; 

Fair are the marble lilies ; 
Fair is every thing. 

Blue are the eyes of Lucy, — 
Blue as the summer sea, 
And full of the changing charm of the sea; 
As suddenly shy, as purely bold, 
Afoam with fancies too fine to be told ; 
Fancies so delicate, pure, and free. 
They seem revealing, above disguise. 
Her very heart in her lovely eyes, 
When over them swift, in fold on fold, 
The baffling waves of reserve are rolled ; 

And in them lies. 
In place of the sparkle and beam and flash. 
A weary sweep of the silken lash, 

And vague surprise, 
That slowly glides into thought as deep 
As the deep, dark wave, whose shadows keep 
The sea's sad mysteries in sleep, 

Whence secrets never rise ; 
Eyes ever and always like the sea ; 
Most like when the sea, in lulls or blows, 
In a countless glory of glimpses shows 

How lovely heaven may be. 

Fresh breezes, waft 
Faint fragrance to her; 

Beat, beat his face 

To a blush apace 
Who comes to sue her. 
Bold Love, stir his heart 

Till its throbs are blows ; 
Shy Love, try thine art 

Till it paints the rose 

Of a thousand glows 
On a cheek that was pale ; 
Blow, breeze, to a gale, 

With frolicsome ways ; 

Fan, fan to a blaze 
The sweet cheek that was pale ; 

Else Love will disclose 

That she knows — that she knows — 

Who is coming to woo her ! 



Select ions from the li'i'iiinQS of Connecticut Women. 59 



THE PARTING. 

Lucy ! Lucy Ashton ! 
Listen, before you speak : 

At Edgar's coming — once — thy heart 

Sent rosy welcome to thy cheelv. 
But now how silent, cold, and pale ! 
Thine eyes their trembling lashes veil ! 
Look up, O tender, downcast e3'e. 
That cannot look in mine — and lie ! 
If that thou wearest on thy breast 

Has ceased to thrill as Edgar's token. 
Return it from its fickle rest : 

'Tis but a heart outraged and broken 
Thou wilt be giving back to me, 

If thou, that parted coin returning. 
Canst say it has no charms for thee. 

1 will not take thy mother's word ; 

She is too heartless, proud, and cold. 
If it be irice thou lovest no more, 

'Tis by thy lips I will be told. 
O glowing lips that I have kissed ! 

O sweet and lovelj^ eyes ! 
No word ! no look ! — in signs like these 

A fatal meaning lies. \Shc gives the coin?[ 

'Tis, then, thy wish, thy deed ! Alas 

That heart so false could beat 
Within a breast so fair! I thought 

Not heaven could be more sweet. 
And canst thou really wish it so ? 

But, ah ! thy silence bids me go. 
O treacherous, fatal loveliness ! 

So tender still thy spell. 
Love cannot speak its deep reproach. 

Farewell, dear love ! — farewell ! 



He rode, unheeding, in the storm : the night 

Infolded him in ever-deepening gloom. 
His noble head drooped on his struggling breast. 
Where broken trust and wounded love's unrest 
Wrought in his faithful heart their mournful blight: 
Thus grief and night prepared his lonely doom. 

For Edgar, Lord of Ravenswood, 

All day in vain they sought. 
When sun was set in hue of blood, 

A stranger tidings brought. 
On yonder quicksand's dizzy maze. 

Found by his favorite groom. 
Only the )'^oung lord's velvet cap 

And matted sal)le plume. 



6o Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



THE LILIES— ALONE. 

On earth beneath, in heaven above, 

Is aught more dear, more pure than love? 

Can aught so perfect have an end ? 

Ask where the slender lilies bend. 

No more by yon deserted spring 

Close-clasping hands, eyes glistening, 

Fond, hurried vows, fond listening ; 

Warm lips, love-thrilled. 

Young hearts, hope-filled. 

All trust and truth. 

That is so new. 

Yet seems not strange. 

O heart of j'outh ! 

What loves like you. 

Defying ruth, 

Unfearing change ? 
Can aught so perfect have an end ? 
Ask where the pallid lilies bend. 

Year after year, o'er yonder spring. 
The wild bird floats on tinted wing ; 
The sky still drops its curtain blue ; 
The sun its morning cup of dew 
Sips slowly, with a beaming smile 
That rifts the quiet forest aisle. 

The path where shine and shadow meet, 
Once lightly pressed by little feet, 
Is tenderly o'erlaid with flowers. 
A fading rainbow in the mist 
With silence keeps the lovers' tryst 
Through slowly-flitting summer-hours. 

A sunny beauty reigneth here : 
Its ripe perfections, far and near. 
In forms and hues and perfumes blend. 
But, oh ! more perfect, pure, and dear. 

The beauty of the young hearts' truth 
That kept the tryst one little year,— 

The sweet, sweet love of early youth. 
Alas ! can aught so perfect end ? 
Alone the empty lilies bend. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 6i 



THE SILVER GIRDLE. 

BY ANNIE ELIOT TRUMBULL. 

[A^ew England Magazine.^ 

THE early twilight of the winter of two hundred and fifty years 
ago could not pierce into the further corners of the low- 
raftered room, empty, save for a high bed whose lofty tester 
barely found accommodation beneath the roof, a deep, dark-colored 
oaken chest, within which a Ginevra might have wept unheard, and 
the slight figure of Devoted Dudley. Although the windows of the 
room looked to the west, where the sun had only just sunk beneath 
the horizon, and the crimson streaks were but beginning to fade 
into dusky pur])le, the pale radiance of a winter afternoon had 
nearly vanished, and but one or two feeble rays of light made their 
labyrinthine way through the small panes of glass, and fell upon the 
wondering eyes and startled fingers, hanging in breathless absorp- 
tion over the oaken chest. 

The lid was thrown back, and there, in shimmering prominence, 
were touches of gold and silver thread and strange brilliancies of 
foreign stuffs. From Devoted's hands fell the draperies of an em- 
broidered mantle, and deeper in the gloom gleamed a hint of a scar- 
let petticoat. A delicate perfume of musk floated up from the pro- 
tecting coverings of these dainty devices — a fragrance strangely at 
variance with the cold, unresponsive atmosphere of the unused bed- 
chamber. Devoted Dudley gazed with a tremor of emotion such as 
her short life had never known at the treasures laid bare by the 
lifted oaken lid. Had she read the Arabian Nights, she would have 
thought of Aladdin's cave ; had her mind been fed on modern 
romance, she would have fancied that she had found the lost treas- 
ures of forgotten queens. Small Puritan maiden, as she was, with no 
experience of a warmer, brighter, more sensuous existence than that 
of New England, she recognized that this was a tangible something 
from a world which only now and then sent distant echoes into her 
own, — a world of which she knew only that it was to be deplored, 
and yet, and yet — and the chill of the room grew full of apprehen- 
sion as she timidly shook the stiff brocade — it was beautiful, surely, 
alas ! it was beautiful. 

Something slipped with ringing, metallic sound down to the 
bottom of the chest. She stooped and groped among the strange 



62 Sehr/io?is from the ]]'riti}igs of Connecticut Women. 

fabrics, the very touch of which was so different from her own 
warm homespun and linen apron. Her little cold hands reached 
something which tinkled again as she drew it up. It was something 
of silver workmanship, tarnished, it is true, blackened here and there, 
but silver certainly, a long chain-like thing of which Devoted knew 
not distantly the use. But, destitute as she might be of training and 
experience, feminine intuition was as strong in the heart of the 
Puritan girl as in that of a court coquette across the water, and after 
a moment's hesitancy she clasped the girdle about her waist, and the 
silver links slipped down on her sad-colored gown, making a band 
of incongruous ornament across its plainness. It was an inspiration. 
With a sudden impulse she ran to the window and looked out over 
the barren landscape. Beyond her stretched flat lines of forest, 
broken here and there by clear spaces of meadow. In the distance 
rose that distinctive feature of a New England landscape, a low 
wooded hill, its summit of dark-green firs cutting the sky like the 
needle of an etcher. Over all lay the mantle of the unbroken snow. 
She bent her head to catch, if might be, the sound of her father's 
return. He would come from the other side, where the wide stretch 
of the frozen Connecticut lay firm and quiet between its shores. 
But it was a silent, as well as a cold and empty, world that she looked 
out upon, and she flew back to the open chest. Quick! while there 
were yet a few rays of light, and while her father yet delayed with 
other magistrates of the little settlement. She seized the scarlet 
petticoat, and dragging it from the depths of the chest, laid aside the 
girdle, and threw the scarlet stuff over her head. The stiff farthin- 
gale rustled, and the bodice was drawn with difficulty three-quarters 
around the childish waist. What is this ? thought Devoted, as she 
drew forth an imposing erection. But, still with sudden womanly 
perception, the stately rufif was caught about her neck. Now, quick 
with the girdle ! and again its flat links fell over Devoted's skirt, in 
accordance now with its surroundings. She caught her breath v.'ith 
excitement ; she knew that such delight was a sin. Had she not 
listened to sermons enough anent the tiring of the Egyptians and 
the foolishness of crisping-pins ? Possibly the Devil himself, no 
vague Principle of Evil to the youth of early New England, was 
even now rubbing his hands at the sight of that long-forgotten ruff, 
part of his own special livery, if one might believe all one heard ! 
Was not something moving there in the deep shadows of the great 
old-fashioned fire-place .? Devoted paused, with her hand on her 



St/cti/oiis from tlic ]Vri tings of Connccticul n\>iiuit. 63 

heart. Then, with a touch of that inherited and atmospheric good- 
sense, which so often saved our forefathers from fanaticism, she said 
to herself, " Methinks the Devil hath enough with which to employ 
his time at his own fireside, not to cumber himself at a chill and 
empty one with the sins of my committing," and looked about for 
the little square of looking-glass which hung somewhere on the 
timbered wall. It was at the eastern end, and in a moment Devoted 
stood before it, peering into its dusky surface. Alas ! it was too 
late. The afterglow was too sombre to reach it, and with disap- 
pointed eyes she leaned forward and sought in vain the reflection of 
her quaintly attired figure. The little gilt-edged mirror gave back 
nothing but a shadowy outline, blurred and indistinct. Close she 
pressed, and caught just a hint of the lofty ruflf. There was a step 
outside, but she did not hear it. The latch yielded and the door 
was pushed back. There was an instant's pause. 

" Devoted ! " said a low voice with an undertone of dismay. 

Quickly she turned from the unresponsive mirror and faced her 
mother, while the confusion of ill-doing crept up to her eyelids. 
Instinctively she grasped the girdle as she stood waiting the blame 
of discovery. 

" Yes, my mother," she answered. Mistress Dudley stood silent 
as she gazed at the little figure. Swift words of reproach rose to her 
lips, but sank back unsaid. Was there something in its quaint 
courtliness, dimly seen in the cold, bare room, that brought, like a 
wave, repressed memories and delights ? It might have been the 
personified spirit of the new country that stood before her ; the gar- 
ments of fashion and vanity proved ill-fitting and foreign to the 
speech and conduct of God-fearing citizens ; the pathetic glimpse of 
the home-spun, here and there, showing through the adornments of 
pleasure, of better worth, truly, than they, yet destitute of so much 
that makes youth a delight ; the fair girlish face, with serious lips 
and eyelids, so different from the laughing coquetry that seemed fit 
to be framed in these dainty accessories. The lips of Mistress 
Dudley trembled a little, good Puritan matron as she was, as she 
said gently : 

"And where found you these fripperies of another and a worse 
time, my daughter ? " 

" In the chest, mother, the chest that has stood unopened since 
— oh ! since ever I can remember," answered Devoted, eagerly. 

" Yes," said her mother, still gently, " and should have stood 



64 Siicctio)is from the ]\^r! tings of Connecticut M'oincn. 

unopened until the memories that it contains should never have led 
thee to such unabashed vanity as that I have found thee in." 

Devoted looked down, and the tears came into her eyes. She 
never dreamed of making any manner of excuse. 

" Put them away quickly," went on Mistress Dudley, regaining 
the firmness that the sudden sight of her daughter had betrayed. 
" The permission that you should have sought, before imprudently 
searching into unopened boxes, would never have been accorded. 
Now let it be as if it had not been forestalled. Put away these 
remnants of a vain and giddy world, that hath forgotten its Maker 
and persecuteth his servants and crieth Peace and Safety where 
there is no safety ! It is not for thee and me to waste a thought on 
them. Then come down to thy supper ; thy father will be here 
anon and will ask for thee " She waited a moment and her voice 
dropped from the ring of the defender of the faith. " And see that 
thou trouble not his ears with the tale of thy discoveries. He 
would hold it treachery in the soul of his child," — and slowly the slight 
figure of Mistress Dudley passed down the steep and narrow stair. 

The latter warning was not needed. Devoted's cheek grew a 
little pale, albeit she was no coward, as she thought of her father's 
austere face had he found her masquerading in the quiet room. 
Without a word she slipped out of the creased but brilliant gar- 
ments, and stood again in her little, short, dark gown, with the 
thick white stockings and solid shoes showing beneath its hem. 
Hurriedly she laid the finery away in the chest where it had so long 
been gathering dust in undisturbed repose. As she lifted the girdle 
to replace that also, her heart failed her. Not without a further 
effort could she relegate that daintily suggestive thing to gloom and 
forgetfulness. She would beg her mother to let her keep that 
where she might now and then see it. Something whispered faintly 
that it had not been all anger that had moved her mother at sight 
of those worse than foolish things. Softly she closed the heavy lid, 
and left the room again to its bare simplicity. She felt as she stood 
at the door and looked back as if she had buried something, — some- 
thing frivolous and weak, perhaps, but fair and light-hearted, after 
all, — with only the tarnished brightness of the silver girdle, where it 
lay on the oaken chest, to mark its resting-place in an unfriendly world. 
"Mother," said she, as she entered the living-room, where a 
tremendous fire blazed in the wide chimney-place, which could hold 
logs eight feet long, and whose glare did away with the necessity for 



Selections from the \\'ri(i)igs of Connccticui Women. 05 

further light. Her mother, sitting a little in the shadow, looked up 
as she spoke. 

"Mother, may I not keep the girdle — just the girdle?" pleaded 
Devoted, " because it is a pretty toy, and I would fain not shut it 
away as if it were to blame." 

"Nay, my child," said Mistress Dudley, firmly, " and it has made 
thee stand a-tip-toe to gaze upon thine own looks as I but late found 
thee ; it were better that it should be thought to have committed a 
misdemeanor." 

" Methinks it were sad for it to be put away into the darkness 
when it has had but a chance to see the light once again," urged 
Devoted, timidly. 

Mistress Dudley hesitated. "Thou wert ever a child of strange 
conceits," she said. 

"And, mother, I will not wear it, no, nor even hold it against 
the dark color of my gown," went on Devoted. " It shall be only 
that it remind me of my fault." The food of theological aj^tnesses 
and arguments had been early assimilated by the sturdy mind of little 
Devoted. 

" It seemeth to me that it savoreth somewhat of popery to have 
an outward symbol of one's sinning before one's eyes," said pretty 
Mistress Dudley, somewhat sternly. Poor little Devoted's eyes fell. 
She had pleaded ill indeed if she had suggested popery to her mother's 
mind. Perhaps the touch of grief in her attitude was the most power- 
ful argument she could have brought. Ah, could not her mother 
understand it — that hunger for something beautiful, that had broken 
now and then through the thoughtful peace of her own soul, 
unknown even to her husband's love ; that quickly stilled outcry for 
something less sombre, that came from her woman's heart, filled as 
it was with lofty aims and noble purposes ; that homesick longing 
for the follies of her careless days, which breathed like a whiff of 
enervating perfume across the clear air of self-denial and patience ! 
All this she understood. And this one child of hers, " devoted " from 
her birth, who could never know them, should she be cut off from 
what was perhaps but an innocent delight ? 

"And yet," she said slowly, " if it be but as a warning, and in itself 
as thou knowest, my child, but a foolish trinket, put it where thou 
shalt see it, not too often, that, tarnished and worthless as it is, it may 
remind thee that such are the joys of a world which is not the abiding- 
place of spirits such as thy father and I would see thine become." 



66 Sckclions from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

Devoted's eyes were raised to her mother's with deep gratitude 
shining in them. 

" I thank thee, mother," she said, and, crossing the room, she 
brought a Httle stool, and, sitting down by her mother's side, looked 
into the fire in silence. Mistress Dudley watched her child with 
some misgivings. 

"And yet," she said to herself, "what wonder that my judgment 
waxed somewhat weak ! It was in yon girdle over my silver-gray 
gown — the one purfled with rose-color, and with silver clasps, that I 
first pleased the heart of m)^ beloved husband. It was a fair May- 
day in England, and mayhap the comeliness of my attire — ' Lord, 
turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity !'" 

The fire roared in the chimney-place, and now and then a shower 
of sparks flew out on the wooden floor. Tlie sturdy beams of the 
"half-timber" house gleamed now and then into prominence. The 
shining brass dishes about the dresser twinkled companionably, and 
in the centre of the room, just out of the fierce heat, on the huge, 
high-backed settle, sat fair Mistress Dudley with, at her feet, the 
stout-hearted little New England maiden. 

"Mother," said Devoted, "there be fair things in England, is it 
not so ? " 

Mistress Dudley started. Had she carried her daughter back 
with her to the old days? "Yes, my Devoted," she answered. 
"Truly there is much that is fair in England." 

" I know," went on Devoted, sententiously, "that it is now the 
abode of lordly oppression and spiritual wickedness in high places. 
But even the heavy hand of the arch-oppressor Laud hath not availed, 
hath it, mother," she concluded wistfully, "to blot out the natural 
fairness of the country ?" 

" No, my child ; it lieth not in the hands of evil men to so work 
upon the handiwork of God." 

"There be merry-makings there, even now ?" questioned Devoted, 
her young soul burning with a new, startled curiosity. 

" Yes, merry-makings and junketings enough. Even so they 
danced in the time of Noah." 

For once, Devoted's little Puritan ears were deaf to the voice of 
scriptural application. 

" And when you were young, mother ?" 

" Yes, when I was young I, too, tripped it with the rest — heedless 
alike of the public weal and my own salvation." 



Sc/ccfio7ts frovi the ]]^rit/nQs of Connccticjii ]]^oiucn. 67 

"And — and where did you go, mother? and what did you do ?" 

" I sang and I laughed and I saw the court lords and ladies sweep 
by from Hampton Court, gay and bedizened beyond the needs of 
soul or body, and I heeded naught save that the grass was green and 
the sky blue and life long — but why do I recall such godless fool- 
eries ? " and Mistress Dudley checked herself sternly. " God knoweth 
I pine not for the empty delights of the Egyptians. It was the dawn 
of a better day;" she paused a moment, with head raised, for they 
both caught the sound of a footstep outside on the crisp, deep snow. 

" When ? " questioned Devoted. 

"When thy father came, as he cometh now, to cure me of the 
folly of dwelling on the things that are seen and tem])oral and look- 
ing away from the unseen and eternal." 

The outside door opened and closed under a powerful hand, 
admitting a blast of cold air that nearly blew that of the living room 
open also. In a moment Calvin Dudley, of Windsor settlement, 
came into the room, and with an almost silent greeting to wife and 
daughter drew near and warmed himself by the blaze. He was a 
tall, austere, handsome man. His close-cropped hair, the long coat 
and absence of ruffles and furbelows imparted the usual severity of 
aspect which marked the Puritan. He looked down gravely but not 
unkindly at Devoted, who had drawn aside quietly that she might not 
be in her father's way. Evidently his thoughts were outside of the 
home circle. 

" It is cold," he said absently, to his wife; " but even in the abodes 
of English luxury, my Joyce, they have not such fires to warm them- 
selves withal." IVIistress Dudley smiled assentingly, as she sent 
Devoted to bring in the Indian bread from the kitchen, where it lay 
warm in the ashes. As she returned her father was saying : 

"Yes, it is a bitter night. The snow blows from the further side 
of the river. But it is neither so bitter nor so sharp as the dangers 
that beset the Israel of God. Yet I believe that Charles Stuart is 
yet to find that, though he have deceived them that put their trust 
in princes, there is One in whose sight his shuffling devices are but 
chaff which the wind of his wrath shall soon drive away." 

"And what of things nearer home, Calvin ?" 

"Aye, and nearer home are dangers within and without. There 
be some, thinketh my kinsman of Newtown, that should be dealt 
with, lest their looseness concerning the smaller matters of practice 
bring greater evils of doctrine." 



68 Selections fro})i the JVritnios of Connecticut Monicn. 

"Thy kinsman of Newtown hath ever an eye for the dangers that 
be ahead," said Mistress Joyce, with a slight smile. 

"And well it is that such an eye be upon us," exclaimed Mr. Dud- 
ley, " lest the noble vine that the Lord hath planted be turned into one 
degenerate! What say you to foolishness of female dressmaking itself 
known even in the Lord's house?" Devoted paused with a thrill of 
conscious guilt, as she placed a trencher on the table. "Are not such 
gauds and trumperies akin to the mockeries of the Court across the 
water? Have we come into the wilderness that we may rear an altar 
to a strange God?" 

The handsome face of Calvin Dudle}' glowed with the fire of an 
enthusiasm that was a part of the very life of these men, to whom 
the altar of God was no mere figure of speech. Joyce looked up 
into her husband's face with a glance of calmer but no less convinced 
fervor ; but she only said, " The true God forbid, my husband." 

That night Devoted lay awake after she had climbed into the high 
four-post bed, and pulled up the thick rug over her shoulders. The 
wind blew straight across the flats by the river and whistled about the 
house, but she was too used to that to be disturbed by it. Instead, 
she was thinking of the silver girdle. Her whole soul was in revolt. 
New ideas and new longings were storming the citadel of Puritan 
upbringing and defense. Was there wrong in what her mother, her 
own sweet mother, had done as a matter of course? How had it 
harmed her? If God meant that we should not enjoy the green grass 
and the blue sky, why had he made them ? And if we enjoyed them, 
why not dance upon the turf, even about the abomination of a May- 
pole, of which she had heard mention with bated breath ? If her 
father had been pleased by the sight of a maid in a fair gown with — 
who knows — the glint of a silver girdle across the pointed bodice, 
why was it so lamentable a sight in a new country ? Her father's 
last words that night rang in her ears. 

" Would that they might hear," — he spoke of the lapsing of various 
converts — " would that they might hear the words of the Reverend 
Thomas Hooker, that man of God, that they might feel the emptiness 
of mere conformity and know the true spirit of endeavor." 

For her part, she was glad that never yet had she been taken to 
the First Church down the river, that her spirit might be uncomfort- 
ably stirred. She might give up the girdle of her own accord if she 
came too overwhelmingly under conviction, — that girdle that now 
lay safe and shining on the oaken chest. With these strange and 



Sehriioiis from Ihc Writings of Connecticut IVo/nen. 69 

rebellious thoughts flitting about in her mind, Devoted slept ; and 
when the next morning dawned she was in the same disturbed mood, 
but went about her appointed tasks and said nothing further of her 
dreams of mysterious foregone pleasures, whose intensity might have 
been shared by a banished favorite. 

Toward the middle of the afternoon, she sat with her flax-wheel 
in the living-room. Mechanically she worked the treadle and drew 
out the twisted thread. 

" Devoted," said her mother, entering with a basket covered with 
a fair linen napkin of her own spinning, "leave thy wheel and take 
this basket along the field-path to Mistress Wolcott. It is a trifling 
gift of new-laid eggs that may please her invalid appetite. There is 
yet time for thee to go and come before the sun sets." 

Devoted rose, and pushed back her wheel, and in a few moments 
her little dark figure was moving along the field of glaring white, 
where a rough path had been trodden to a group of neighboring- 
houses. She did her errand quickly and turned homeward. The air 
was cold but still, and Devoted's long, gray, warm homespun cloak and 
close little hood, as well as her familiarity with all sorts of weather, 
prevented any feeling of discomfort ; so she loitered on the way 
back, looking at the still, frozen river before her, and then at the 
western sky, flushing crimson as the sun drew near the horizon. As 
she reached the point where the path turned into the field she paused. 
Down the road from the north a horseman was making his way, 
slowly for the most part, for, though the highway was traveled, it 
was by no means smooth. Devoted, half inclined before to prolong 
her walk, with her new impulse to idleness and speculation, under 
the added stimulant of curiositv — for travelers were few — -kept on up 
the highway, knowing that she could turn again further on. Before 
she met the wayfarer, however, her attention, easily diverted in this 
state of vague unsettlement, was drawn to some boys building a snow 
fort in a clearing near the low banks of the Connecticut. She stood 
by a tall tree and watched them, as the sun sank lower and the cold 
landscape grew a little warmer in the pale suffusion of reflected color. 
She was so standing when the stranger drew rein just beside her, and 
spoke. 

"And what does so small a maid as this more than a stone's-throw 
from her own house, and the night coming on apace?" 

Devoted started a little, but looked up fearlessly into the face 
above her. The voice was firm and sweet, with a certain ringing 



70 Selections from the M^ritings of Conncctiiut ]]^07uen. 

quality which would always arrest attention, and the face and form 
well carried out the impression that it made. She saw a fine-looking 
man of about fifty, in long, black traveling cloak, high boots, some- 
what travel-worn, and a broad, black hat, beneath whose brim eyes 
commanding and penetrating, yet softened with gentleness, looked 
down into hers. No child would have feared such an apparition. 

" Sir, I am but taking the long way home," answered Devoted. 
" And truly my home, though somewhat further than a maid may 
throw, since throwing is not a custom in which maids excel," — De- 
voted made this interpolation with evident regret, — "yet I think, 
sir," and she glanced shrewdly at the strong hand on the bridle, " a 
stone sent hy your arm might reach nearly to its dooryard." 

The dignified stranger smiled. 

"And what is the name of this wise maiden who knoweth so well 
the shortcomings of her sex ? — and in these days, moreover," he 
added, half to himself, " when certain of them would set the contrary 
example." 

" Devoted Dudley, reverend sir," she answered, more and more 
impressed with the majesty of the broad forehead and magnetic voice 
of her questioner. 

" Dudley ? Ah, a daughter, then, of Calvin Dudley, whose kins- 
man of Massachusetts Bay I have counseled with in Newtown." 
Devoted said nothing. She heard mechanically and understood, but 
she was under the sway of an overmastering impulse — an impulse to 
bring her rebellions and her longings to the judgment-bar of this 
wise, grave man, whose air betokened a dissolver of doubts. 

"Well, little Mistress Dudley," went on the stranger, as he lifted 
the rein, "speed thee away home, and the Lord be with thee. The 
night grows colder, and a good fire will be a better companion than 
the lonely road." 

" Yes," answered Devoted, looking up earnestly and laying her 
hand on the horse's neck, " truly the nights are cold and the wind 
from the river bleak, but in England there be warmer houses and 
closelier built, and there it is not always that wood must be chopped 
lest we freeze, and bitter snow-storms faced lest we have no food, and 
fire-locks kept clean lest the Indians find us unawares ! And why 
did we leave those pleasanter places where be safety and warmth and 
— yes," and Devoted took her courage in both hands, "yes, and 
merriment ? " The tears stood in her eyes and her lips trembled with 
the masfnitude of the revolt she had made and the feelinof that it had 



Selections J ro]ii tlic \]')-i tings of Connecticut Women. 71 

awakened, and as her voice fell with the last compromising word her 
eyes fell too, and it was a moment before she lifted them to the face 
of him whom she felt instinctively to be her judge. The firm mouth 
had grown a little stern and there was reproof, but not unkindness, 
in the look which he bent upon brave little Devoted. 

" In England," he murmured, " in the land where freedom is not. 
Truly the mouth of this babe speaketh not wisdom." There was an 
instant's pause and then the deep voice said gently, " It is small 
wonder that a question perplexeth thee, my daughter, that hath 
made wiser heads than thine to toss restlessly on their pillows. But 
this one thing I would have thee to remember — " 

It was almost dark; the long tiat stretches were cheerless in their 
whiteness, the dense unbroken woods black in contrast. In all the 
landscape there were onl)' these two moving figures — the grave, hand- 
some man on horseback, and the little eager, breathless girl looking 
up into his face. In after years it came back to Devoted's memory 
with the distinctness of a photograph. 

" That there be two things for which men live. One is the pleas- 
antness of warmth and of merry faces, and of the ease that cometh 
of bodily enjoyment. That it is a pleasantness much to be desired, 
needeth no argument. With it thou shouldst have bright trinkets 
and careless junketings that it may be thy soul longeth fsr." 
Devoted flushed slowly as he paused. " And the other thing that men 
live for," and the magnetic voice grew ringing as it fell clearly on the 
crisp air, " it is naught, say men of conformity, but an idea ! It is 
but this — that there shall be no voice that shall say to us ' Go here 
and go there,' that shall bid us bow the knee or do reverence to a 
name, that shall command our bodies or our souls, save that of the 
living God ! " 

Again there was silence for a moment. The Puritan soul of 
Devoted responded to the call of liberty. It rose within her on a 
wave of enthusiasm that would not let her speak. 

" These two things men live for," he went on more quietly. 
" Thy father hath made his choice, thine own pastor Warham hath 
made it, the men who struggle in bitterness and cold for these un- 
grateful fields have made it — it is for thee, little Mistress Dudley, to 
make it too." 

The appeal to the hidden and spiritual fell rarely as a strange 
language on the cars of childhood or age in those days. The whole 
training of the time was towards the perception of the unseen. 



72 Selections from the ]V7'itinos of Connecticut IVo/nen. 

Devoted's stormy little heart grew quiet under the ministrations of 
words so in the spirit of her life and education. But repression was 
another lesson of the age, and she said nothing, but with what 
seemed almost an unseemly outbreak of emotion she held up her 
hand and placed it in that of the friend she had met, as a sign, all 
at once, of greeting, gratitude, and farewell. Gravely he held it a 
moment, while he said, thoughtfully : 

"It may be that the wall of partition is even now broken down, 
that God hath called one of his elect." Then he added, " Now dost 
thou walk along by my side. I have but to go to Mr. VVolcott's 
house, and he shall go with thee across the fields, for it is too late 
for thee to find thv way alone." 

Obediently Devoted turned back the way she had come, while 
her grave and reverend companion was soon lost in contemplation, 
possibly suggested by their conversation, as his tired horse plodded 
wearily on. Occasionally she caught such words as these: " It is 
not a general, confused, and slight sense of sin that will serve our 
turn ; nay, verily, if there be any corruption that the heart lingers 
over, it will hinder the work of preparation, even as in the heart of 
this maiden. The union that is between the soul and its corruptions 
is marvelous, strong, and firm. As it is with the wheel of a clock, 
so it is with the soul of man " 

As they drew near to Mr. VVolcott's, a young man came forth 
and greeted the arriving guest with enthusiasm governed with 
respect. They exchanged a few words which Devoted did not hear, 
and as the stranger indicated her with a wave of the hand, young 
Mr. Wolcott turned and smiled, then, hurriedly drawing a. paper 
from his pocket, handed it to the distinguished traveler who, paus- 
ing to glance at it before he passed into the house, said something 
evidently in assent, whereupon the younger man turned away with 
it and joined Devoted. Together they went along the narrow 
footpath through the darkening fields. "And who is the gentle- 
man of power and learning who hath discoursed with me upon the 
way ? " asked prim little Devoted. 

" Who is he.-* " exclaimed her escort. " Who but the worship- 
ful pastor of the First Church in Hartford, a man mighty indeed, 
and gifted far beyond the common in the things that be of the 
intellect and spirit." 

" The Reverend Mr. Hooker ! " exclaimed Devoted in her 
turn, pausing to face her companion. "Have I seen and spoken 



Sclcitnvis from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 73 

with him ? But — but," she stammered in her surprise, " where is 
the king that men say he hath in his pocket ? That is" she hur- 
riedly added, as her companion smiled, " though I know surely 
that that be but a manner of similitude, yet I did expect some- 
thing more difficult of access in his manner and conversation." 

" And yet," rejoined Mr. Wolcott warmly, "had he the king in 
good faith in his pocket, there could be added nothing to his 
speech or character more majestical. And indeed, methinks," he 
added, in grim afterthought, " the king of England might esteem 
himself fortunate had he just now so safe and dignified a hiding- 
place as the pocket of the Reverend Mr. Hooker." 

" Certainly he speaketh the truth with an authority that is not 
to be gainsaid, and yet with a pleasantness that maketh it a sweet 
sound," said Devoted with conviction. " And," she went on 
thoughtfully, "with a something, moreover, that belongeth not to 
all teachers, but only to him, I believe, who is a great man." 

" And he knoweth, too, concerning things of state," said Mr. 
Wolcott, as they stood within the porch. " And here is a writing 
I would have thee give thy father, that he may read and consider 
thereof in view of the decisions that are before us. It containeth 
the notes of a sermon preached on the last Sunday of May by 
Mr. Hooker, concerning the appointment of magistrates and things 
of kindred importance to the very existence of our commonwealth. 
I must hasten back, that I lose not the companionship of our 
beloved guest. I wish thee a good-night, fair Mistress Devoted." 
That night, as Devoted hurriedly undressed in the cold room, 
all the chillier in that she had just left the blazing fire below, her 
thoughts dwelt on every incident of the afternoon. Her mood 
had changed and, though she recalled the silver girdle, it was with 
chastened fancy, as a pretty thing truly that she should always love 
to look upon, but not with cryings out after vanity. Instead, she 
felt the divine fire of enthusiasm, communicated by the rapt and 
glowing speech of the preacher to whom she had listened. It tvas 
worth while, — the bitterness, the hardship, the privation ; and as 
Devoted looked from her window at the moonlit barrenness with- 
out, her heart swelled, with a sudden, prophetic perception of what 
it all meant. She thought, too, of the document intrusted to her 
care. In her eyes it had assumed an almost sacred character. It 
had to do with the existence of the commonwealth, and its words 
were those of that guardian of all good whose services, public and 



74 Selections from the J!'r/^///os of Connecticut ]\\vnen. 

private, were household words in the Connecticut Colony. In her 
present exalted mood, that paper meant patriotism itself. It was 
still in her care, for on entering the house she had learned that 
her father was to remain away over night, and, still too excited to 
talk of the matter, even with her mother, she had quietly laid it 
away in the unoccupied chamber where we first found her. It was 
a sort of Puritan penance, dimly felt and not understood, that she 
had performed, taking it into that room and coming out again, 
with never a look at the silver girdle lying still on the oaken chest. 
To-morrow she would take them both away. To-night she would 
not even face temptation; she would overlook it. Scarcely had her 
head touched the pillow when she slept. It was a pleasant dream 
that visited her that night. She was in a gay company in another 
land, whose fairness was like that of her own country in summer, 
when the river was free, and its banks soft and the tracery of the 
willows green against the sky. But the company was gayer than 
any here. They were laughing and dancing on the turf, she and 
other maidens, and she herself wore a cherry-colored petticoat and 
a green bodice with large sleeves purfled with cherry, and about 
the wrist was a silver girdle ; but it was not tarnished — instead it 
sparkled and shone as she danced, and it was so bright — oh ! so 
bright that it almost hurt her eyes, and 

" Devoted, my child, Devoted!" cried her mother's voice in 
her ear. " Wake up, my heart ! The house burns, and we have 
but time to fly ! " 

Devoted, roused at last, sprang to her feet, and by the red 
light in the room threw herself into her clothes ; and then it was 
all confusion and calling of neighbors and buckets of water and 
saving of furniture ! Fortunately, there was a little time to work 
with a good-will, which was not wanting. The first moment that 
Devoted could think connectedly, she was standing outside in the 
bitter cold, holding her mother's dress, as they watched the neigh- 
bors running in and out. Suddenly, with an exclamation, she 
dashed into the burning house. The room where was the oaken 
chest was still untouched. Her girdle, her poor, pretty girdle, 
she must save that! It seemed to her that she had just had the 
dainty thing about her waist. Her mother did not see her go, so 
absorbed was she. Up the short, steep stair, through the smoke, 
she flew, unobserved, into the room whence the furniture had been 
carried out. Where was it ? Had it been lost in the confusion ? 



Sclcc/wns from the U^i-ifinQs of Counecticiit Women. 75 

And even as she rushed into the room, came the thought of the 
precious writing entrusted to her care. Where was that — and 
what did it represent? What was it he had said that afternoon 
about an "idea"? There was no time to lose. She heard her 
mother calling, " Devoted, my Devoted ! Where is she ? Where 
is she ?" With a quick, keen glance about the room lighted by the 
flickering flame without, she caught sight of a bit of white on the 
floor. 

"Here, mother, here!" she cried, an instant later, — climbing, 
rushing, falling, she did not know how, out of the house, with the 
fire hot on her face, into her mother's arms. 

There was no hope from the first of saving the house. The 
tremendous chimney running up through it had caught and burned 
fiercely ; and when Calvin Dudley returned the next day, it was 
to find a blackened ruin where he had left his home. But wife 
and child and many lesser possessions were safe, and those early 
settlers were not men to complain of vicissitudes. 

" Joyce," he said somewhat sadly, " truly, we have better fires 
than in England itself ! Is it that our luxuries are ever to be our 
snares ? " 

Early in the next year he went up to Hartford to attend the 
meeting for the adoption of a constitution. 

" Father," said Devoted, the evening before he left, " dost 
thou think that thou wilt meet there the worshipful Mr. Hooker?" 

" I hope that God willeth it so," he answered. " Else shall I 
be truly much disappointed." 

"Wilt thou bear him a word, father, from me?" asked De- 
voted, somewhat timidly. 

" That I will," answered Calvin Dudley, smiling. " What 
hath my little maid to say unto the great divine that he will wish 
to hear ?" 

" He will be glad to hear," said Devoted confidently. " Tell 
him," — and her thoughts went back a moment to the silver girdle, 
that had meant so much to her a month ago, vanished forever on 
that eventful night, — " tell him little Mistress Dudley hath made 
her choice." 



Selections from the Writings of Connectictit Women. 



THE MISSION OF EDUCATED WOMEN. 

BY MRS. M. F. ARMSTRCWG. 

[Popular Science Monthly.'] 

'• Love seldom haunts the breast 
Where learning lies." — Pope. 

■' 'Tis Reason's part, 
To govern and to guard the heart."^ — CoTTON. 

" I loved her well ; I would have loved her better 
Had love been met with love ; 
As 'tis, I leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them." — Bvron. 

AN article entitled " Plain Words on the Woman Question," re- 
printed from the " Fortnightly Review" in this magazine, is 
so far in the nature of an attack upon the women whom the 
writer calls into court, as to make reply, from one or another quarter, 
legitimate, and indeed, I think, obligatory. As a woman, who is 
bound by the conditions of wife and motherhood, for which Mr. 
Allen makes so able a plea, I cannot individually appear on either 
side. It is not the women whom I represent who are under discus- 
sion, but none the less are the principles involved of the deepest and 
most pressing interest to thoughtful women everywhere, whether 
they have elected the single-handed fight, or the less evident but 
none the less serious test which comes with motherhood and the en- 
deavor to make a home. 

My excuse, therefore, for offering myself, in a sense, as a mouth- 
piece for the women whom Mr. Allen classifies as "deplorable acci- 
dents" is, first, that the points raised are in reality of as much im- 
portance to married women as to their unmarried sisters ; and, 
second, that my position gives me, I think, unusual advantages for 
getting at certain underlying facts. 

I have been for years connected with a large educational institu- 
tion, where young men and women are working, side by side, under 
identically similar influences. The officials and teachers in this school 
are largely women, and women who, to quote Mr. Allen, have be- 
come " traitors to their sex," in that they have taken upon their 
shoulders the burden of their own support. They are, with few ex- 
ceptions, highly educated, many of them college-bred, three among 



Selections fro7n the Writings of Co7inecticut Women. 77 

them being regular physicians, while all of them, if I may be permitted 
to judge, are of at least average attractiveness. As to health, 
social position, and previous condition, they offer also, I believe, a 
fair average, while their intellectual standards mark them high in the 
scale of feminine development. 

For years they have puzzled me, for they are, without doubt, rep- 
resentative of a social phase, and the reasons for their existence, as 
well as the future to which they point, offer a unique temptation to 
the theorist. The appearance of the article already alluded to gave 
me a long-desired opportunity, and I at once laid it before my friends, 
asking for it their serious consideration. Nowhere in America, I am 
sure, could the opportunity be more complete, or the response more 
telling ; and I trust that what these women have to say for them- 
selves will not be without interest, to those at least who have read 
Mr. Allen's frank and, on the whole, liberal article. 

In a charming cottage, occupied by two of this misguided sister- 
hood, to whose menage the most critical e3'e could find nothing lack- 
ing, there was gathered, a week or two since, an unmistakably strik- 
ing assemblage of single women, well looking, well dressed, rangeing 
from twenty to fifty years of age, every one of whom could have, in 
the past, married, or could still marry, were it her desire to do so. 

There was not a fanatic among them ; they were sensible, earnest, 
in some cases brilliant women, who had, with more or less intention, 
turned their backs upon marriage, and chosen instead lives of self- 
supporting independence. Why have they done this ? Undoubtedly 
it is to more than one cause that we must look for this result ; but, at 
the outset of the discus.sion, it was universally admitted that Mr. 
Allen is right in considering the " higher education," to which he 
objects, to be the most potent factor in the situation. Furthermore, 
the knowledge of life in all its phases, which these women have 
gained, both from their intellectual training and their practical 
experience as bread-winners for themselves and others, makes them 
ready to accept most of his other premises. 

They- admit, that is, the physical necessity for maternity, and no 
man can appreciate its sacredness as they do. 

They admit, again, the necessity for that tremendous overloading 
of the sexual instinct, whose meaning Emerson interprets when he 
says : " The lover seeks in marriage his private felicitation and per- 
fection, with no prospective end ; and Nature hides in his happiness 
her own end, namely, progeny, or the perpetuity of the race." 



78 Selections fi'oni tJie JVritinQS of Co>ttieciic7ii Uoiiien. 

They admit, too, the value of the institution of marriage, and, as 
in the case of the ideal motherhood, put its beauty and its possibili- 
ties of happiness far beyond the usual masculine conception. 

As to the continuance of the race, they are far too keen to blink 
any facts, even when they count against themselves. The race, at all 
costs, must go on, and women must be wives and mothers, or, to 
keep exactly to the lines laid down by Mr. Allen, must at least be 
mothers, to the end of time. And, following their logic to the bitter 
end, they admit that, under existing conditions, and probably for 
long periods yet to come, the women who assume motherhood as 
their vocation must be prepared to renounce, more or less completely, 
their chance for intellectual development. 

To this point our argument, on the evening of which I speak, 
went smoothly enough. Little or no exception was taken to Mr. 
Allen's position. So long as he made himself only an exponent of 
natural laws, and of their inevitable effect upon the social fabric, 
there were no dissentient voices. But there came a moment when 
the question must be put point blank, and it was then that, for the 
first time, we, so to speak, came down to business. 

" Now," I said, from my vantage-ground of neutrality, "you 
have cleared the decks. No social philosopher can demand more 
hearty agreement with the principles of his science than you 
have given ; no man could desire more generous acknowledgment 
of man's place in creation, or of the fundamental relations of the 
sexes, than you offer ; but the main issue is still untouched. 
Tell me why you, as representative individuals, have not married, 
do not marry, and are endeavoring, so far as educational methods 
can do it, to perpetuate your type ? " 

Masculine critics will possibly here suggest that a truthful 
answer to the first of these questions was far and away beyond 
my reach ; but the women to whom I was speaking were fully in 
earnest, and there were no evasions. 

" In the first place," said a clever woman beside me, " while we 
deny that our education unsexes us, we are conscious that it gives 
us a self-control, a balance, which is of inestimable advantage 
to us in the practical affairs of life, and induces us to consider 
marriage from more than one point of view. In the past, it is 
the emotional nature of women which has been cultivated, often 
at a heavy cost. Now, her intellect is taking charge, and we be- 
lieve that there is no longer any reason why, as a rule, we should be 



Selections from the IVriliitos of Co)inccticiit Women. 79 

sacrificed to our own emotions. Is it not, on the vv'hole, desirable 
that women should study facts and weigh reasons as men do ? You 
may say that it is the emotional virtues which are distinctively femi- 
nine, and that, as Mr. Allen says, ' a woman's glory is to be 
womanly, as a man's is to be virile' ; but can it be shown that the 
training of her intellect makes a woman any less capable of love and 
devotion ? Does it make her any less willing to sacrifice herself for 
the good of others ? I think, on the contrary, that there is abundant 
witness to the fact that the increase of a woman's intellectual power 
usually intensifies her susceptibility to high motives, from whatever 
source they may reach her, or through whatever channel they may 
come. But, certainly, she is no longer a passive recipient ; she 
thinks now as well as feels, and the inevitable result is that her at- 
titude is more judicial than of old." 

" Do you know," here interpolates a newly graduated collegian, 
" that in our colleges it has become a proverb that, if a girl isn't en- 
gaged before she is a sophomore, the chances are all against her 
marriage ? " 

The assent to this is very general, and one of the older women 
states the evident reasons for it : " We become more interested in 
our studies, more certain of our ability to take care of ourselves, and 
therefore less interested in men as possible lovers, and more inde- 
pendent of them as a means of support." 

"And also," dryly remarks a very marriageable maiden, "it be- 
comes evident to us that, as a matter of fact, the men whom our 
friends marry do not always come to time in their roleoi 'providers' 
and are not infrequently ready to accept assistance at the hands of 
the women whom they have undertaken to support." 

Apropos of this, it is here suggested that possibly the prospect of 
domestic drudgery is not congenial to women who have found them- 
selves capable of different and better work ; and this is assented to 
by several of those present who are supporting their own establish- 
ments, and paying servants to perform the household labor which 
would fall upon their shoulders were they in the position of the 
married woman of average means. 

This, again, suggests a comparison as to the relative value of the 
normal home wherein father, mother and children complete the 
group, and of those more artificial homes which lack the natural ele- 
ments of union. Generous recognition is at once given of the beauty 
of the possible home, and of the power and importance of the woman 



8o Sclccliflns from the Writings of Connecticut M'oiuen. 

who creates it ; but that this is woman's only field is emphatically 
denied. There are now open to her many channels through which 
she can influence the race, and the question is raised as to whether 
the advantage in this respect is altogether on the side of the married 
woman. Two or three of the older women in the group, who have 
had long and varied experience as teachers, ask if it is not probable 
that among the many children who have come into their hands there 
are not some, at least, who owe more to their school environment 
than to the home life. They claim that they, as teachers should be 
credited with the influence which, in the nature of things, is insepar- 
able from the responsibility which is put upon them. " To us," 
they say, " and not to the already overburdened wife and mother, is 
given the power to lead and direct the youth of the race. Would 
you have us, with that in view, aim for anything less than the best ? 
The education of English and American children is, in the main, in 
the hands of women, and this not because of an anomalous social 
condition, but because of their peculiar fitness for the work. On Mr. 
Allen's own showing, these women should remain unmarried, and, if 
this involves a sacrifice on their part, it is left for him to show us 
that such sacrifice is ignoble, or in any sense threatening to the 
public welfare." 

A response to this comes from the women physicians, who, in 
their work for their own sex and for children, feel, in all humility, 
that they are doing more for humanity than if they limited them- 
selves to the reproduction of their kind. Granting that each of 
these women might leave behind her the ideal four successors, what 
is this in comparison with the many women whom she may have 
saved from disease and death ; the households to which she has 
taught better ways ; the new standards of purity and self-restraint 
for which she has bravely fought ? 

In such a discussion it is difficult not to individualize ; but, well 
as I know these women, I am surprised at the breadth of their 
views, their candor, and their humility in regard to their own 
achievements. But it is a humility which permits no abatement of 
their just claims. They no longer admit any question as to their 
intellectual capacity. With the simplicity of conscious strength 
they take their place beside the men who challenge them, and are 
not at all afraid to face the result of their own actions. It is also 
plain that they are, on the whole, contented with the lot which they 
have chosen. The sacrifice, if it be such, has been made with open 



Selections from the ]Vri tings of Connecticict I To men. 8i 

eyes and of free will, and there is no sighing after the possibilities 
which they have rejected. 

" But," I ask, " do you never feel, especially as you grow older, 
the lack of some young strength upon which to lean, some fresh 
energy to which to bequeath your own experience ? " 

As might be expected, the answer to this is varied. In some 
instances the strength of the maternal instinct has led to the 
adoption of children ; in others, to some special work which keeps 
up the connection with childhood ; while again there are women, as 
there are men, in whom the instinct is lacking, and who find other 
interests sufficient to fill the gap. 

Mr. Allen's suggestion as to the possible readjustment of the 
marriage relation, and his pledge that men will meet women half- 
way in any such attempt, is received without special enthusiasm. 
That is, the general feeling is, that it is not in the marriage relation, 
either in its legal or social aspect, that the root of the difficulty is to 
be found. Rather, they consider, it must be looked for in the 
standards with which men and women enter into that relation. It 
is constantly proved, by the evidence of happy marriages, that the 
contract easily adjusts itself where the parties to it comprehend and 
accept its terms. Not that there is not room for improvement in 
minor particulars, especially in the direction of certain legislative 
changes ; but that, fundamentally, the monogamous idea, the per- 
manent union of one woman with one man, is a trustworthy basis 
upon which to rest the social structure. 

The women of whom I am writing disclaim positively that their 
indifference as to marriage arises from any dissatisfaction with the 
institution as it now and here exists. They deny also unanimously, 
and backed by a good deal of proof, that their education (it being 
understood that they have received the modern college education, 
or its equivalent) in any way unfits them for the duties of wifehood 
and maternity, or, primarily, renders these conditions any less 
attractive to them than to the " domestic " type of women. On the 
contrary, they hold that their knowledge of physiology makes them 
better mothers and housekeepers ; their knowledge of chemistry 
makes them better cooks ; while, from their training in other 
natural sciences and in mathematics, they obtain an accuracy 
and fairmindedness which is of great value to them in deal- 
ing with their children or their employes. In short, they are 
not afraid to match themselves in practical life with the women 



82 Sclcciions f^^oiii the ]\^ritings of Coiuiccticiil IVoii/cn. 

for whom Mr. Allen claims a developruent impossible to the 
"dulled and spiritless epicene automata "to whom his attack is 
addressed. 

As we approach the close of the discussion, the common-sense 
of the various speakers makes itself strongly felt. They are not 
theorists, but practical, healthy women, and they do not in the least 
deceive themselves as to the actual, every-day aspect of this question. 
But, on the other hand, they stand for the feminine type of which 
our American prophet and seer wrote thirty years ago : * " At this 
moment I esteem it a chief felicity of this country that it excels in 
women. A certain awkward consciousness of inferiority in the men 
may give rise to the new chivalry in behalf of ' woman's rights.' 
Certainly, let her be as much better placed in the laws and in social 
forms as the most zealous reformer can ask ; but I confide so 
entirely in her inspiring and musical nature that I believe only 
herself can show us how she shall be served. The wonderful 
generosity of her sentiments raises her at times into heroical and 
godlike regions, and verifies the pictures of Minerva, Juno, or 
Polymnia ; and, by the firmness with which she treads her upward 
path, she convinces the coarsest calculators that another road exists 
than that which their feet know." And it is therefore no surprise 
to find that these women of a later generation are, finally, by the 
loftiness of their ideas and, as it were, in spite of themselves, lifted 
above the plane of Mr. Allen's arguments. 

They sum up the reasons why they, as individuals, do not marry, 
in a somewhat formidable array. " We find," they say, " that we 
are intellectually the equals of the men whom we meet. It is now 
a fair give-and-take, and it is no longer required of us that we make 
up for the light weight of our intellects by throwing in a double 
measure of sentiment. Neither is it any longer necessary that we 
marry for the sake of a somewhat uncertain support. We are able 
to take care of ourselves, and we find nothing uncongenial or unsex- 
ing in our success. 

" Furthermore, and above all, we see that, while the processes of 
evolution have pushed us so far forward that there is no longer, in 
our dealings with men, any serious question as to inferior or superior 
abilities, there still remains between our moral standards and theirs 
the same gap that has existed ever since the purity of woman has 
been tacitly recognized as essential to civilization. 

" Essay on Manners." 



Selections froi/i the Writings of Conneetieut Women. 83 

"The moral sense is, in us, more highly developed than in the 
men who are otherwise our peers; and now that this is no longer 
deflected in its action by the pressure of unfair conditions, it is 
equivalent to a new factor in the relation of the sexes. It is evident, 
however, that this factor cannot have full play e.xcept as the 
individual is independent ; and it is to the single, self-supporting 
woman only that this independence is possible. Women who are 
dependent, in any direction, upon men, must, almost of necessity, 
condone their vices, and as a result gradually approximate to their 
standards, which is a consummation most devoutly not to be desired. 
We believe that there is no personal conceit in claiming that we are 
morally upon a higher level than men, this being a recognized fact 
in modern sociology ; but it is a fact which repels us from the close 
relations of marriage, in which we now believe that we have a right 
to a return for all that we give. When, therefore, we find that, 
while we are offered intellectual companionship and provision for 
our physical needs, the higher demands of our spiritual nature are 
ignored or set aside, we naturally hesitate, and, hesitating, are, from 
Mr. Allen's point of view, lost. He looks at our problem from 
without, we from within. We realize, often in bitterness of heart, 
that our moral life, the life of our aspirations, is upon a plane 
which, as yet, the average man has not reached. We can never 
go back to him, but we stand ready to welcome him whenever he 
can bridge the chasm and make our standard his. 

" This is our position as individuals ; as a class, we see no 
evidence that we are ' accidents,' still less that we are to be 
deplored. We believe, indeed, that, so far from this being true, we 
in reality represent an important phase in human development, 
that we are a distinct product of evolutionary forces, and that in 
the future it is not impossible that the ' balance of power ' may 
be found to lie in our hands." 

The value of this statement is in the fact that it comes not 
from one woman, but from many, and in it there is surely nothing 
to discourage Mr. Allen and those who think with him. The 
women to whom he appeals are ready to meet him, but it must be 
on a platform of their own choosing, and they can afford to wait. 
They do not ask "aid in rebelling against maternity," but they 
demand that the responsibilities of fatherhood shall no longer be 
shifted or made light of. In short, they require of the fathers of 
the next generation just what Mr. Allen demands for the mothers, 



84 Selections from the JVritinQS of CotDiecticut IJ^omen. 

viz., "that they shall be as strong, as wise, as pure, as sane, as 
healthy, as earnest, and as efficient as they can be made." 

And as this demand, on the part at least of the men who make 
it, is presumably based not so much on any personal predilection 
for the qualities enumerated as upon their desire to further the 
best interests of the race, the argument in its favor is as valid for 
the one sex as for the other. 



STANDING WATCH. 



BY JULIE MERRELL. 

{Lend a Hand, 1S9S.] 

We're standing watch, the while our comrades sleep ; 
We watch by turns, and work, and wait, and weep ; 
We note each beam athwart the orient sky, 
And as it rises, man to man we cry. 

Hail ! coming morn ! 

Base Cruelty sits nodding on his throne. 
And little dreams that Love will claim his own; 
False Superstition 'neath her altar hides. 
While sordid Selfishness the land divides — 
But ah, the morn ! 

Some stars long since arose to give us light, 
But made us doubly conscious of our night; 
Now, sweeping all things in his glorious way, 
The conquering angel ushers in the day — 

O, wondrous day ! 



Selections froDi the Writings of Connecticnt Jl^onicn. 85 



HISTORIC NEW LONDON. 



THE JOHN WINTHROP FAMILY — THE WINTHROP HOMESTEAD — OTHER OLD HOUSES- 
ANCIENT ELMS — THE FIRST BURYING GROUND. 



BY CHARLOTTE MULYNEUX HOLLOWAY. 

[New England Magazine, 1S86.] 

NEW LONDON has so long been celebrated for the possess- 
ion of one of the finest harbors in the L^nitecl States, that 
strangers, hearing its citizens dilate upon their pet hobby, 
may well be pardoned for concluding that New London's chief 
claim upon their admiring regard is a watery one. No greater 
mistake could be made. Few cities have more right to command 
the admiration of the lover of the beautiful and the historic. 
Were it the province of this article to dwell upon the natural 
beauties of the place, pages could easily be filled where now 
paragraphs must suffice. 

The town is built upon a slope gradually rising from the 
Thames to an elevated ridge in the northwest, from which a su- 
perb view can be had of the river in its ribbon-like course twisting 
around the bold promontory on the east, thence flowing calmly on 
to mingle in the waters of the Sound, — whose broad surface 
stretches away to the south like a sea of silver. On the opposite 
bank lies the village of Groton, its level fields of gold-tasseled 
corn, its scattered farm houses and lofty green hills forming a 
gladsome sight beneath the strong glare of the August sun ; yet 
the monument to the victims of the Fort Griswold massacre, loom- 
ing up — a grim, untiring sentinel, silently voicing the tale of man's 
passion and patriotism, baseness and nobility — eloquently tells 
how once yonder fair scene was darkened by murder most foul and 
treacherous. 

On the north the landscape becomes exceedingly diversified 
and rugged. Beyond the upper portion, a high elevation seems 
to wall off further advance, and well justifies the name bestowed 
upon it in the early colonial days by a homesick settler, who called 
it "The mountain from which he could see his dear England." 
Between this part of New London and the river is a noble wood 
of forest trees, abounding in hills and hollows, and containing oaks 
which have withstood the storms of centuries. 



86 Selections from f/ie Writings of Con)iccticnf J J 'on/en. 

The walks and drives about the town in any direction afford the 
lover of " nature adorned by man " a fair chance to go into ecstasies 
of either joy or grief, and make the critical stickler for architec- 
tural principles a little perplexed to find names for the varied 
styles which will be sure to attract his attention. Some of the 
private residences bear convincing testimony to their owners' taste. 
Few cities can show a more simply elegant mansion than the Mt. 
Vernon house, built by General Jedediah Huntington, the first col- 
lector of the port under the Federal Government, — now owned 
and occupied by E. L. Palmer, who has renovated and beautified 
the place without marring its harmonious simplicity. 

It is a curious evidence of the jealousy with which the higher 
powers regarded any aspiring settlement, to find that it was only 
after a long and obstinate struggle that the dwellers on the bank 
of the river they had christened "Thames" were able to get the 
authorities to consent to call their plantation " New London." 
The name first given, " Nameeug," was not to the liking of the 
home-loving settlers, as we find from the records : — 

22 Feb., 1648. — The same day the inhabitants did consent and desier that the 
plantation may be called London. 

The General Court, however, did not approve their choice, for, 
under date of May, 1649, it is recorded that "the Court commends 
the name of Faire Harbour to them, for to be the name of their 
Towne." 

That the inhabitants did not follow the advice of the General 
Court is shown by the town records, viz.: 

Aug. 29th. — The Towne have sent to the Court by there deputys, Hugh Calkin & 
Thomas Mynor, that the Towne's name may be called London. 

The Court was obdurate. In enlarging the town's bounds to 
Paukatuck River, the ensuing September, it refers to the presump- 
tuous settlement as " Nameage." The people of " Nameage" were 
just as obstinate as the Court, — which finally yielded gracefully, — 
as witness this entry in its records : — 

Mar. 24th, 1658. — This Court, considering that there hath yet no place in any of 
the colonies been named in honor of the cit}' of London, there being a new planta- 
tion within this jurisdiction of Connecticut, settled upon the fair river of Monhegin, 
in the Pequot country, it being an excellent harbour and a fit and convenient place 
for future trade, it being also the only place which the English of these parts have 
possessed by conquest, and that by a very just war, upon that great and warlike 
people, the Pequots, that therefore, they might thereb)' leave to posterity the memory 
of that renowned city of London, from whence we had our transportation, have 
thought fit, in honour to that famous city, to call the said plantation New London. 
[Conn. Col. Rec. Vol. L] 



Sc/cc/ioiis from the W'li lings of Connecticut Women. Z-] 

It is a somewhat curious comment upon the ingratitude of 
towns to find so little preserved in New London commemorative 
of the man who did so much for the town and for Connecticut. 
That Connecticut must have been colonized in time admits of no 
doubt. That it would ever have enjoyed the remarkable advan- 
tages which contributed so much to its growth without the aid of 
John Winthrop is highly improbable. 

John Winthrop, the younger, Governor and chief founder of 
Connecticut, was the eldest son of the leader of the second Puritan 
emigration, which was really the foundation of the Massachusetts 
colony. He was born February t2, 1605. The Winthrops were 
an ancient and honorable family of Groton, in Suffolk, and could 
well bestow upon him the rare advantages he received. After 
leaving the University of Dublin, he was at the siege of Rochelle 
with the Duke of Buckingham, but probably left that nobleman's 
service before his assassination. The courtly training Winthrop 
thus gained served Connecticut well in after-years. It did not, 
however, attach him to the court of the Stuarts; for, in 1631, he 
came with his wife to Massachusetts. This lady, after fourteen 
years in wedlock, died childless; and a year later, Winthrop, then 
in England, married Elizabeth Read, of Essex, and with her and 
her step-father, Hugh Peters (the celebrated Puritan divine who 
wanted to have Charles I. listen to his prayers the night before 
his execution), returned to America in 1685. 

Impressed by the energy, education and enterprise of Winthrop, 
the patentees of Connecticut commissioned him to begin the Say- 
brook settlement. He immediately dispatched an advance guard 
of twenty, who left Boston, November 3d, and succeeded in pre- 
venting the Dutch from taking possession, but did nothing until 
spring, when Winthrop set Lion Gardiner, the engineer, to build- 
ing fortifications. He himself was not satisfied with the limits set 
down in his instructions, and followed along the coast till he came 
to Pequot Harbor. It needed not a second glance to convince his 
far-seeing mind of the magnificent possibilities, which both he and 
Stoughton pointed out to their superiors. He had already settled 
upon Fysher's Island for his own; and, ambitious to establish a 
baronial estate, early determined to locate at Pequot. 

But the Pequot war arose almost immediately. The conflict 
between the natives and the whites ended with an act of the most 
atrocious cruelty. In June, 1637, about one hundred prisoners 



88 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut J Tome n. 

were taken in the Pine Swamp, Groton; the men, thirty in num- 
ber, were brought out into the middle of the river and drowned ; 
the women and children were sold into captivity. 

Although deferred, Winthrop's determination had not de- 
creased. In the interim he had gained the favor of Sashious, 
sachem of the Nahantics, and obtained from him the grant of a 
considerable portion of his territory. In 1640, he received from 
the General Court of Massachusetts the grant of Fysher's Island, 
and this grant was confirmed by the Court of Connecticut, as wit- 
nesseth this extract: — 

April g, 1641. — Upon Mr. Winthrop's motion to the Court for Fysher's Island, it is 
the mind of the Court that so far as it hinders not the public good of the country, 
either for fortifying, for defence or for setting up a trade for fishing, or salt and such 
like, he shall have liberty to proceed therein. [Col. Rec. Conn. 'Vol. I.] 

Winthrop's application for Fysher's Island was but the precursor 
of his settlement on the island and at Nameag. On his return 
from England in 1643, he was engaged for some time in salt 
works. In 1645, Winthrop and Thomas Peters, an ejected Puritan 
clergyman of Cornwall, England, were the principal directors in 
the work of settling Pequot Harbor. The mistake in dating the 
natal day of New London, May 6, 1646, is owing to the fact that 
this was the day the following commission was issued : — 

At a General Court held at Boston, 6th of May, 1646. Whereas, Mr. John Win- 
throp, Jun., and some others have, by allowance of this Court, begun a plantation in 
the Pequot country, which appertains to this jurisdiction, as part of our proportion 
of the conquered country; and, whereas, this Court is informed that some Indians 
who are now planted upon the place where the said plantation is begun, are willing 
to remove from their planting ground for the more quiet and convenient settlement 
of the English there, so that they may have another convenient place. It is there- 
fore ordered that Mr. John Winthrop may appoint unto such Indians as are willing 
to remove their lands on the other side, that is, on the east side of the Great River 
of the Pequot country, or some other place for their convenient planting and sub- 
sistence, which may be to the good liking and satisfaction of the said Indians, and 
likewise to such of the Pequot Indians as shall desire to live there, submitting them- 
selves to the English Government, etc. 

And, whereas, Mr. Thomas Peters is intended to inhabit in the said plantation — 
this Court doth think fit to join him to assist the said Mr. Winthrop, for the better 
carrying on the work of said plantation. A true copy. [New London Rec. Book VI.J 

But Winthrop had commenced the plantation in the previous 
year, as a letter from Roger Williams to him bears the inscrip- 
tion : — " For his honored kind friend, Mr. John Winthrop, at 
Pequot —These — -Narraganset, 22nd June, 1645." In the letter 
Williams sends his " loving salutes to your dearest and kind 
sister," Mrs. Margaret Lake, who came with Winthrop and Peters 
to the infant settlement, and who was the first white woman who 
trod upon New London soil. 



Selections froiJi the Writino.^ of Connecticut J Von/en. 89 

In October, 1646, Winthrop removed his family from Boston 
to Fysher's Island, his brother Deane accompanying them ; and 
in the following summer, the house at Nameag being completed, 
they came thither. Ihe Winthrop household consisted of his 
wife, Elizabeth, also, for a time, Mrs. Margaret Lake, and his 
children, Elizabeth, Wait Still, Mary, Lucy, Fitz-John and Mar- 
garet. Martha and Anne were born in Pequot, as the place was 
first called. 

It is impossible to glean much information from the early town 
records, which were very loosely kept. Miss Caulkins, in her 
admirable History of New London, says the first records were 
made in a stitched book, which some considerate scribe labelled : 
" The Antientest Book for 1648-49-50." This " Antientest Book " 
and its successors show that Winthrop was held in high honor by 
his fellow townsmen. In January, 1649, it was " agreed by the 
townsmen of Nameag that Mr. John Winthrop is granted to set up 
a were, and to make huse of the river at Poquamuck at the uper 
end of the plaine for to take from, and so to make improvement 
of it, to him and to his heirs and asignes." He is never mentioned 
save as " Mr. or Esquire," — titles very charily used. In 1650, 
" Mr. John Winthrop" and " Mr. Johnathan Brewster " were made 
freemen of the Connecticut Colony. The next meeting, in Feb- 
ruary, 1^49, displays the growth of a democratic spirit; for, 
instead of having sole authority, Mr. Winthrop is granted four 
associates. 

A very pretty' incident was associated with the early history of 
New London, and may properly be brought in here. It was 
related by Winthrop himself in 1672 in testifying concerning the 
boundaries in one of the suits with its neighbors, which the litig- 
ious and ambitious town was constantly maintaining. 

In 1646-47, Jonathan Rudd, a Saybrook colonist, was very 
desirous to marry his affianced bride. All had been prepared for 
the ceremony, but a heavy snow-storm prevented the minister 
engaged from coming. In this extremity he applied to Winthrop. 

The latter, while eager to aid the lovers, was not legally 
empowered to officiate in Connecticut jurisdiction, holding, as he 
did, his authority from Massachusetts. He solved the difficulty 
by proposing that the bridal company come to " Bride Brook," 
then called " Sunkipaug," two miles west of Niantic Bay, and the 
limit of the plantation. The proposition was accepted ; and, beside 



go Selections frovi the JVritiiigs of Coiiiiccticut Jl'oiiieii. 

the ice-covered brook, with the crisp snow crackling beneath their 
feet, and the bare branches of the trees intercepting none of the 
feeble rays of the winter sun, was performed a marriage rite 
unparalleled in romance, and yet vouched for in history. 

Winthrop, Coit, Shaw, Perkins, Hempstead, Deshon, Hallam, 
Mynor, Brooks, Chapman, Christophers, Prentis, Brewster — all 
names known in New London history — have achieved more than 
local fame ; but it is of the branch of the great Winthrop family, 
intimately associated with New London's fortunes, that we shall at 
this time treat. 

Like Lion Gardiner, Winthrop was ambitious to found in the 
New World a baronial estate, which should equal in fertility and 
extent the grandest held by English peer or commoner. But 
unlike Lion Gardiner, the wise and politic Winthrop never wished 
to have a realm " where none but barbarians would visit him with- 
out an invitation." Winthrop, above all things, desired to have 
his name revered by posterity for the good wrought by its owner, 
to have generation after generation of Winthrops follow in inherit- 
ance of the noble manor lands left by their illustrious ancestor. 

The General Courts of Massachusetts and Connecticut and the 
inhabitants of Nameag proved most complaisant in the furtherance 
of his desires. In the division of land he was always allowed first 
choice, while the others had to abide by lots. He selected for his 
home lot the neck of land (comprising 200 acres) which now 
bears his name in the memory of the older inhabitants ; and these 
resent the presumption which has led the residents to sacrifice 
historical association to pride of city association, by christening 
their section " East New London." 

Winthrop's Fisher's Island grant has already been described. 
In addition, he had on the east side of the river a tract three miles 
in length from north to south, averaging perhaps a mile in breadth, 
lying between Poquonock Creek and Mumford's Cove, washed by 
the Sound on the south and intersected by inlets of salt water, 
and containing forests, meadows, uplands, pastures, and salt-marsh. 
His river lot on the Groton side (so called in compliment to 
Groton, the Winthrop family seat in England) was eight score 
pole in length, the same in width. Beside these he had the Mill 
Pond Farm, 300 acres ; Mystic, Lanthorn Hill, Goat Island, and 
some 10,000 acres in \'^oluntown, Plainfield, Canterbury, Wood- 
stock, Saybrook and Black-lead-mine Hill in Massachusetts Bay, 



Srhrthv/s from tJic Writings of Coiniccticut If 'omen. 91 

10 miles in circumference. Many a European prince might have 
coveted such a sovereignty. In March, 1649, Roger Williams 
writes to congratulate him on his possessions at Paukatuck. 

Winthrop was a man of ceaseless activity. No sooner had he 
accomplished one enterprise than he turned to another. While 
freely serving the colony in every public capacity, he was engaged 
in salt, iron, and fishing enterprises ; he traded, farrped, botanized, 
quarried, mineralized — sending specimens to Sir Hans Sloane — 
raised goats and sheep, and set up mills and forges. He continued 
in the magistracy till made governor; he was a member of a special 
court of three who decided suits too important to bring before the 
General Court; was the personal friend and adviser of every man 
in the colony, and performed all marriages in the early days, and 
often administered medicine. He was thoroughly identified with 
New London, which he had resolved should be his home ; and 
when, in 1657, the news came that he had been chosen Governor, 
the sorrow of his fellow-townsmen nearly overpowered their pride 
and pleasure at the recognition of his worth. 

It was necessary for the chief magistrate to remove to Hartford, 
but though he continued in the office of Governor from 1657 to 
1676, he always considered Pequot, or New London as his home. 
His homestead he had previously bestowed upon Edward Palmes 
of New Haven, who had married his daughter Lucy. Winthrop 
describes this in his will, as follows : 

" The stone house, formerly my dwelling house in New London, 
with garden and orchard, as formerly conveyed to said Palmes 
and in his use and possession, with the land lying to the north of 
the said house to join with James Rogers. Also, a lot of six acres 
lying east of the house bounded north by the ox-pasture and east 
by the Great River, and having two great oak trees near the 
center line." 

The stone house thus bequeathed to Palmes was the house 
erected in 1648 by Winthrop for his own occupancy. It was a 
most stately dwelling, and one of the three stone houses then in 
the colony. The stone from which it was built had been quarried 
a mile from the town and brought to the " Neck " with great 
trouble 

" The Neck," as Winthrop's manor lot was called, was a bold 
rugged point jutting out into the river, remarkable for its stern 
and lofty beauty and its jagged and picturesque outline. Winthrop 



93 Sc/rcf/flns from the U'rifiuos of Coiiuecticjd IJ'onicn. 

built his mansion at the head of the cove on the east side, 
where it stood for more than a century, shaded by gigantic oaks — 
the only house on the whole point. Its noble avenue of oaks, its 
wide lawns, its gardens of flowers and fruit, and its magnificent 
parks of ancient forest trees, with sheep and deer gamboling 
beneath their mighty branches, or reposing in their shade, formed 
an estate well calculated to swell the owner's heart with pardon- 
able pride. 

It was the intention of Winthrop that, while his daughter Lucy 
should have this mansion and land, all his possessions, at the time 
of his death, should be held jointly by his two sons — his four 
other daughters having been portioned, as well as Lucy. 

The contrary realization of Winthrop's dreams show how God 
disposes of what man proposes. Of all the vast area bearing the 
name of Winthrop, but one small section remains, and even that 
wishes to discard the name which Connecticut has such reason to 
revere. 

Lucy Winthrop Palmes died the year following her father's 
demise. She left one daughter, Lucy, who inherited the manor in 
1 712. Though twice married, she died childless, and bequeathed 
the Winthrop manor to her step-brothers, Guy and Andrew 
Palmes. In 1740 it was sold to John Plumbe. 

When Arnold burned New London, September 6, 1781, the 
Plumbe house was the first fired of those upon Winthrop's Neck. 

The two sons of Governor Winthrop, Fitz-John and Wait Still, 
adhered scrupulously to their father's will. Both were men of 
great prominence in the Connecticut colony, but neither circum- 
stances nor character enabled them to excel their father in services, 
though they were worthy scions of the name. Wait Winthrop 
succeeded his brother John as major of the county regiment, and 
some ten or twelve years later took up his abode in Boston. 

John Winthrop fulfilled much the same duties as his father, but 
had a far greater share of military service. When King Philip's 
War broke out in 1675, John Winthrop, then the highest military 
commander in the country, was very ill, and his brother. Captain 
Wait Winthrop, was dispatched at the head of the New London 
contingent. It is worthy of note that New London always 
responded generously to any appeal to her patriotism. 

In 1690, during King William's War, Major-General Fitz-John 
Winthrop was commander-in-chief of the forces of New York and 



Sclcclions from tlic ]Vri tings of Coiniccliciil IJ'onici/. 93 

New England, and made an expedition into the Canadian territory, 
intending to attack Montreal. The Indians, who were to cooperate, 
failed to appear; Winthrop was beset with difficulties, and only by 
the exercise of the utmost strategy succeeded in reaching Albany, 
where the New York Government, professing to lay the defeat at 
his door, were prevented from sacrificing him to popular indigna- 
tion only by the boldness of friendly Mohawks, who gallantly 
rescued their beloved commander, and brought him back from 
prison to his own camp. 

From this expedition General Winthrop brought back to New 
London nothing but a fame untarnished — after the most severe 
scrutiny by the legislature of the colony. His daughter and only 
child, Mary, however, had reason to rejoice at its disastrous term- 
ination, as it was the direct cause of her meeting and wedding 
the brave Captain (Colonel) Livingston, who was one of the New 
York officers who took refuge with Winthrop until the senseless 
indignation of his government should give place to reason. But 
he never returned to New York. He became interested in some 
of the numerous projects of his father-in-law. After Mary's death 
he married Elizabeth, daughter of Mrs. Sarah Knight, and died in 
England in 1720 while transacting business. 

Fitz-John Winthrop never had the strength and endurance so 
beneficently bestowed upon the early colonists. From 1697 to 
I 707, while Governor, he had been away from New London nearly 
all the time, but had given it many tokens of his affectionate 
regard, so that it was with sincere regret that the inhabitants learned 
of his death at Boston, whither he had gone for medical aid. The 
Boston News Letter, the first newspaper published in North 
America, begun in 1704, contained this death notice: 

Boston, Nov. 27th, 1707. — About 4 o'clock this morning the Honorable John 
Winthrop, Esq., Governor of His Majesty's Colony of Connecticut, departed this 
life in the 69th year of his age. Being born at Ipswich, in New England, March 
14th, anno 1638; — Whose body is to be interred here on Thursday ne.xt. the 4th of 
December. 

He was buried with his father and grandfather in King's 
Chapel. 

Fitz-John had married Elizabeth Tonge, daughter of George and 
Margery Tonge, keepers of the public inn. She survived him till 
1 73 1 , living in her father's house. Her only child, Mary Winthrop 
Livingston, died January 171 2; of her burial-place there is not 
the slightest trace. 



94 Selections from tJie IVritinos of Conneeticiit ]\'oincn. 

In their endeavor to keep the estate as their father had desired, 
the Winthvop brothers had a long and vexatious lawsuit with 
Major Edward Palmes, husband of their dead sister Lucy. He 
was defeated in the colonial courts, and fared no better in England, 
whither he had appealed it. Wait Still Winthrop had a son John, 
whom Fitz-John and he had agreed should be sole heir of their 
joint possessions, but, curiously enough, the younger John Win- 
throp had also to establish his claims to the undivided possessions 
of his father and uncle by a lawsuit, — Mrs. Thomas Lechmere, of 
Boston, his only sister, claiming her portion. Joseph Dudley, his 
father-in-law, testified before the colonial courts that Governor 
Fitz-John Winthrop had meant to have his nephew his sole heir, 
but the courts, recognizing that the acknowledgment of Winthrop's 
claims would be admitting that the English law of primogeniture 
had force in the colonies, decided against him. He was naturally 
very indignant, and appealed to the king, who confirmed him in 
possession of his estates. 

He was as dissatisfied with the colonists as they with him, and 
for twenty-one years he remained abroad ; but his wife and family 
made New London their home, and his eldest son, John Still 
Winthrop, went to London in 1741, and remained with his father 
till the latter's death, August 1,1747. 

Mention has been made of the lot sold by the first Governor 
Winthrop to James Rogers, a baker, who furnished bread to the 
colonial troops. Winthrop's transfer of this portion of his estate 
was afterward the source of the greatest annoyance to his heirs, 
as they were continually in litigation with Rogers over the water 
privileges. Madam Winthrop repurchased the lot, which, a 
century after the first Winthrop sold it, thus became again a part 
of the Winthrop estate. Upon it now stands the stately mansion 
built by John Still Winthrop (great-grandson of the learned, wise, 
and gentle John Winthrop) in 1747, just a century after his great 
ancestor built the Winthrop manor on his " home lot." 

A grand old relic it is of a grand old family. It stands at the 
very head of the cove, separated from it by a narrow street, bord- 
ered on one side by gigantic English elms and a meadow beyond. 
In front of it stretches away "The Neck," with its bridges, its 
workshops, its railroads, its neat dwellings, — a busy, bustling min- 
iature city ; and here and there towers up a stately old tree, cast- 
ing the shade of antiquity over the modern glare. Afar off pulses 



Sclcc/ioiis from the W'riliugs of Connect icid Women. 95 

the Thames, — its sun-kissed waves gleaming; and sparkling. To 
the left a modest little church nestles under the steep hill, which 
rises up abruptly, and with its overhanging boulders, gnarly 
stumps and stunted cedars, forms a wild and forbidding prelude to 
the beautiful forest beyond it. 

The Winthrop manor is a very old stately house, built in the solid 
elegance which characterized the English country houses of the 
seventeenth century, provided with an abundance of room}^ 
porches and balconies. A high stone wall, surmounted by a 
palisade-like fence, encloses the front lawn. Passing through the 
massive gates, one comes upon lawns and gardens, once the 
pride of the gardener's heart. Rare roses run riot, English shrub- 
bery, brought thither by Consul-General Stewart, form tangled 
thickets of neglected bloom. Although it is a comparatively 
short time since the last family left the mansion, it bears the 
impress of neglect. Sitting upon the quaint portico, one cannot 
help conjuring up visions of the past history of the old manor. 
Here John Still Winthrop sat and watched the gay young people 
as they sauntered over the lawn or loitered among the roses. 
Those old trees have doubtless sparkled with lights for more than 
one of the garden parties which were so popular in the old times. 
In that nook between two friendly trees perhaps a heart secret 
was whispered. Through yonder postern gate, opening into the 
lane which divides the grounds from the woods, mayhap some 
jiretty maid stole forth to keep a tryst. 

How often have the great gates of the winding avenue been 
swung back to admit the Winthrops and their guests, returning 
from Fysher's Island manor to their country seat ; how many 
times Hempstead, whose chatty, gossipy diary has been a god- 
send to antiquarians, walked beneath those overarching trees. 
And in after years, when the Stuarts held reign, — George, Will- 
iam, Cardinal and Charles, Mary, Isabella, Anne and Frances — 
what a brave, merry and handsome octette you were! How the 
halls of the Winthrops resounded with your merry laughter and 
gay jests, — even "Aunt" Amely, the " cullud " cook — whose soul 
seemed bound up in her pastries and puddings — would leave her 
task and gaze after " de young folkses" as they departed upon 
some wild frolic. And deaf-and-dumb David Bolles, the counter- 
part of the anxious Martha of the Bible, the major doino, the 
awful dragon who presided over the red and gold apples, — even 



96 Selections froDi the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

he would yield his choicest treasures with alacrity to Isabella or 
Anne. 

Oh ! old house, grim with the silence of loneliness, what a tale 
could'st thou tell if thy walls gave back the words they have often 
drunk! What would its tenor be? Would it be a comedy, full 
of light, the tinkling of music, the ripple of laughter, the whir of 
dancing feet, — would there be aught of darkness or gloom ? 

A very jolly set were the Stewarts, — the consul, grave and 
quiet, much pre-occupied with his duties, and absorbed in his bus- 
iness, a press-mill which was run on the spot where the Albertson 
foundry now stands, yet never neglecting the calls of hospitality ; 
and Mrs. Stewart, a type of the English lady, much given to 
riding, hunting, partying, dressing and dancing. The older people 
of New London still treasure in their memory the famous Stewart 
lialls and skating parties, to which it was high honor to be a guest. 

Speaking of skating reminds one that the famous mill-pond of 
Governor Winthrop must be included in this estate, and we incon- 
tinently desert the manor — after having lingered for the regula- 
tion time, absorbed in admiration of the great drawing-room with 
its rare panels and scriptural tiles. Out through \\\& portc-cocJiere, 
fighting one's way through tall orange lilies — commemorating 
the memory of pious William — into the damp, dark avenue. 
The writer was prepared to give allowances for the ravages of 
time and neglect — but can this reedy, sedgy little triangle be the 
famous pond which provoked so much litigation ? Was it from 
this that the whalers used to fill their barrels ? Was it over 
this surface the swans majestically floated, — where the Stewarts 
rowed in summer and skated in winter ? Yes, for there is boat- 
house and ice-house, and the little bridge " which spans its rapid 
flow." Though one may be disappointed in its size, one cannot 
avoid being struck by its calm, lethargic beauty. Its centre is 
perfectly clear and motionless, of a peculiar greenish hue. The 
northern and western sides are a mass of water-lilies in bloom, — 
their glossy green leaves, spread out upon the water, tenderly hold 
up the flowers ; at the upper end a wall of wild roses, dwarf 
maples, wild clematis and elder bushes, forms a dense thicket ; at 
one side a broken hawthorn hedge strives to cover the obtrusive 
ugliness of an old stone wall, which defiantly refuses to be hidden, 
and a solitary weeping willow drops its tears upon the placid sur- 
face ; near by, a vigorous young oak proudly flings out its sturdy 



SeleclioLS from the IVriliiigs of Connecticut Women. 97 

branches as though the sluggish decay about it made it rejoice in 
its full life. A woodpecker darts at its trunk ; a catbird emits a 
quavering cry ; a chipmunk, leaping along the stone wall, pauses 
to regard us with unrestrained, enquiring astonishment ; then a 
robin dips his beak into the water, and a curious little fish comes 
up to take a peep. 

The rays of the August sun are almost delightfully tempered, 
one almost succumbs to a Rip Van Winkle drowsiness, when the 
jingle, jingle of the city 'bus, watering its horses at a neighboring 
trough, prove a most efficacious antidote. 

Going down the avenue, the first thing which impresses us is 
the time-defying character of the stables, which seem to have been 
Ijuilt to shelter a whole troop of horses ; one building, — a long, 
narrow structure, with arched doors and tiny panel windows — is 
surmounted by an empty belfry ; it strongly suggests a guard- 
house. 

Judging from the present umbrageous features of the estate, 
the former owners must have derived immense " pleasure in the 
pathless woods," for here are oak, maple, pine, poplar, elm, 
spruce, ash, the "light, quivering aspen," the noisome ailanthus, 
butternut and mulberry. If they had designed to give evidence 
of their abilities in arboriculture, they could not have better 
succeeded. 

But if the old Winthrop house is redolent of antiquity, what 
can be said of its neighbor, — modestly hiding under the shadow of 
its eaves, as it were — the old mill, built in 165 i by the first settlers 
at Pequot ? 

Miss Caulkins' History of New London says : "The estab- 
lishment of a mill was an object of prime importance. It was de- 
cided in town meeting, the loth of November, 1650, that all the 
inhabitants should cooperate with Mr. Winthrop in building the 
at mill ; and that, 

" Further, it is agreed that no person or persons shall set up 
any other mill to grind corn for the town of Pequett within the 
limits of the town, either for the present, nor for the future, so 
long as Mr. John Winthrop or his heirs, do uphold a milne to 
'grind the town corn.*" 

The town faithfully adhered to its agreement, though the heirs 
of Winthrop did not ; and it was not till 1 709 that another was 
built at Jordan. 



98 Selections from ihe Writings of Conncclicnt Women. 

Well they wrought, — those men of steel ! To-day the stones 
of the dam are as firmly set as when — the last one placed — the 
weary laborers drew back with proud satisfaction from their task. 

Salvator Rosa never had better subject than the old mill 
affords. Its long sloping roof nearly descends to the door, over 
which it projects, forming a portico supported by the self-same 
knotty, gnarly, twisted cedar posts cut by a Brewster, or a Latham, 
two hundred and thirty-five years ago. The door, of massive 
planks crossed by huge iron bars, opens in upper and lower 
halves — a precaution needed in the days when not over-peaceable 
or honest Indians were frequent visitors. The small windows 
have doubtless served for loopholes for muskets. The cellar must 
have been designed for a dungeon. Within, the massive rafters 
almost touch one's head ; its semi-darkness and a feeling of awe 
make the intruder glad to breathe again the fresh air. 

But the old mill has other than musty memories. Over its 
threshold has stepped many a fair girl-bride ; within its walls many 
a happy family were reared. The old portion, set off for the 
miller's family, is still in perfect preservation. The last miller, 
Giles Perkins, spent his first years of married life beneath its roof. 
At the side opening on Winthrop avenue, is a little door, upon 
whose step the miller's wife often sat, surrounded by her children, 
and watched the doings of the great house. 

Dame Nature was at her wildest when she planned the little 
glen in which the mill is situated. Nothing but an earthquake 
could have produced such a magnificent confusion of rocks, small, 
medium, large, — rocks worn into basins by the constant flow of 
the water which dashes from one to another down the steep in- 
cline, lashing itself with foam, throwing up spray and roaring like 
a Niagara on a very small scale ; rocks completely covered with 
gray moss, and rocks from whose split hearts a lofty tree has 
arisen. The profusion of rocks is only equalled by that of the 
trees. They grow in all directions, in all shapes, of all sizes, at 
all angles. Wherever a blade of grass has found foothold, up it 
springs, of a marvellous freshness and greenness, which would do 
credit to the Emerald Isle. And such ferns ! They would make 
the puny pet of the conservatory wilt away in mortification. 

Silent and desolate is the old mill now, — seeming to have 
gained a deeper lonesomeness since the death of the last miller, a 
short time since. The old overshot wheel hangs dry and motionless, 



Select iivis from the ]]^ri tings of Connecticut W^onieii. 



99 



never again to feel the mastery of the hand which for forty 
years set its busy, cheery clatter agoing. 

Placid, gentle, guileless old Giles Perkins ! How fitting would 
it have been for mill and miller to have ceased their usefulness 
together. 

Main street (Town, in the old time,) is the oldest street after 
Bank and Beach (Water). "When Arnold burnt the town," he 
left very few dwellings upon its length. The dwelling house, at 
present occupied by Judge John P. C. Mather — may not have 
any historic recollections associated with it, but the many admir- 
ers of that persistent and consistent defender of the tariff. Con- 
gressman John T. Wait, will probably yet make it the object of a 
pilgrimage, for it is his birthplace. Below, on the same side, is 
the house of Captain Guy Richards, erected by him in 1739, but 
spared in the burning through the piteous entreaties made by his 
mother for the life of the captain's daughter, who was danger- 
ously ill of fever. The next house of interest is the house on the 
corner of Main and Shapley streets, owned by W. D. Pratt, who 
has kept it as nearly as possible in its old form. It was built in 
1769 by Captain Shaw, for his daughter, " Pretty Polly Shaw," — 
whose portrait in the family gallery shows her to be a fair, sweet- 
faced child of fifteen. At her marriage with the young Congreo-a- 
tional minister, Ephraim Woodbridge, she became mistress of the 
house built and furnished by her father. The happy visions of 
the young pair are shown by the lines still on the window pane, 
engraved by the bridegroom on his bridal morn : 

EPHRAIM WOODBRIDGE. 

Hie vicit. 

Hail happy day ! the fairest sun that ever rose. 

1769. 

But the black cloud of death soon obscured his sun. Scarcely 
si.x years, and Pretty Polly Shaw and her husband lay together in 
the grave. His epitaph says : 

" Zion may in his full bemoan, 
A Beauty and a Pillar gone." 

On the east side of Main street is a long, low, rambling brown 
house, whose closed shutters and general somnolent air would 
never make the observer believe that it could have been the 



lOO Schrf/ons from thi: W'ritiin^s of Conueclicut \]\vncn. 

famous old Fox tavern, celebrated for its "entertainment for man 
and beast." Diagonally opposite is the old Episcopal parsonage, 
erected in 1745, and occupied by the ministers of that faith for 
over one hundred years. Its venerable neighbor on the right looks 
like what it is — an old Puritan homestead, — which counts its 
birthdays up to one hundred and fifty, and rigidly refuses to adorn 
itself with any modern ornaments. Just in front are three mighty 
elms which must reckon their ages by centuries. 

A legend is told of one of the Burbeck family which well illus- 
trates the fearlessness with which a bold son of New London will 
defend his rights. It appears that the sapient selectmen of the 
town had taken it into their heads that the beauty of the thorough- 
fare demanded the sacrifice of one of the elms, while the owner of 
the elms, Brig.-General Burbeck, had an opposite opinion. The 
selectmen sent him their commands repeatedly, but the General 
received them with increasing contempt. At length the crisis 
came. The selectmen felt that they must avenge the outraged 
majesty of law and order, or remain forever despised. The gen- 
eral felt that to consent to the destruction of his hamadryades 
would be to tarnish all his glory. The selectmen armed them- 
selves with axes and copies of the law defining their powers. The 
general girded himself for the conflict. It is doubtful if that soul- 
stirring poem, not infrequently recited by schoolboys, " Wood- 
man, spare that tree," had yet been evolved ; it is pretty certain 
that, even if it had been, the general would have scorned to waste 
its pathos on the selectmen. He placed himself in front of his 
trees, brought his gun into position, and as he ran his eye along 
the sight, said in trumpet tones : 

" The first man that touches a tree I will shoot like a dog ! " 

Silence so heavy that it would have outweighed boarding- 
house bread fell on the vandal host. The selectmen saw not the 
outraged majesty of law ; they saw not the gibing faces of their 
townsmen ; but they did see the muzzle of the gun, the gleam of 
the general's eye ; and, realizing that discretion was far better 
than valor, they stood not upon the order of their going, but fied 
ingloriously. The elms still stand. 

It would be well for the picturesque beauty of New London if 
more of the present generation were imbued with some of the 
Burbeck spirit. The elms which shade sections of State and 
Huntington streets are glorious trees ; and it would send a New 



Sclcrtifljts from the Writings of Couiicdiciif Women. loi 

Havener into spasms of envy merely to gaze upon their magnifi- 
cence of girth and height ; yet every day some Goth with a tune- 
less soul arms himself with his little hatchet, and in an hour ruins 
what a hundred years scarce serve to form. 

It would be hard to recognize the old court house of 1784 in 
its gay red dress, save that its prime Puritan outlines still peep 
out and seem to refuse to be modernized. When it was built, it 
was considered a very elegant structure. It is square, two stories 
in height, and is surmounted by a round cupola. It is utterly 
guiltless of ornament, unless a vivid imagination interpret the 
modest pediments over the windows as such. 

It would be superfluous to call attention to the old Hempstead 
house, the Shaw mansion, and the Nathan Hale schoolhouse on 
Union street; every urchin in the city knows their location, and 
every visiting stranger has " done " them. The two first are par- 
ticularly rich in recollections and souvenirs. In the Hempstead 
house — one of the oldest, if not the oldest, in Connecticut, having 
been built in 1643 — is a sky-blue satin waistcoat, about which is 
told a pretty story. It was sacredly treasured by the family, who 
preserved it as a proud memento of a courtier ancestor. But in 
the days when New London was a great resort for the royal navy, 
Patty Hempstead, having vainly teased her father for a ball dress, 
audaciously took her scissors, and, without the slightest reverence 
for her departed ancestor, adapted his gorgeous finery to her own 
plump outlines, and, thus clad, doubtless broke many a sturdy 
Jack's heart before the night was half gone. 

The Shaw mansion is a spacious, hospitable mansion of lime- 
stone. It fronts Bank street, opposite the cove, which bears the 
name of that family, once the ruling maritime spirits of New 
London. Nearly every room has its history or romance. Both 
Washington and Lafayette were guests of the manor, and probably 
the former danced at the lawn party given in his honor. 

Next the Shaw house stands one which, if not so imposing, is 
more quaintly picturesque ; its roof, like that of a Swiss chalet, 
descending upon cedar posts full of knots and spanned by antique 
trellises. 

Here dwelt, in Revolutionary days, one of the Christophers ; 
as stanch a tory as ever cried "God save King George!" He 
wined and dined Benedict Arnold the day that traitor burned New 
London ; and scarcely had his " distinguished guest " departed 



I02 Sc/ccti'ojis from the ]Vritings of Coniiccticiit ]]'omcn. 

when he saw the flames rising from the residence of his patriot 
neighbor. Forgotten were all differences. Christopher rushed 
to the rescue. There was no water at hand, not a moment to lose. 
Luckily there was a vat of vinegar in Christopher's out-house ; 
and with this the owner soon succeeded in subduing the flames. 
The Christopher house still bears the name of " Vinegar" house, 
from this episode. 

It would not be acting fairly toward one of New London's 
most interesting possessions to omit a description of the burying- 
ground of the first settlers — which still remains. It was laid out 
in 1653, and is the "antientest" burial place in New London, and 
has been the subject of many times repeated and minute legisla- 
tion. It was solemnly resolved in town meeting, that "It shall 
ever bee for a Common Buriall Place, and never be impropriated 
by any." Any extortion on the part of the sexton was also care- 
fully provided against, as evinced by this extract from the town 
records : 

Goodman Comstock is chosen to be grave-maker for the town ; for a man or 
woman he is to have 4 shillings, for children 2 shillings a grave, to be paid for by 
survivors. 

"To be paid for by survivors," shows that the sage council 
strongly favored having the deceased remain in their graves, like 
decent, well-behaved ex-citizens, instead of roaming about, like 
Banquo, to settle up old scores. 

But the old burial-place did not remain the soleburying-ground, 
as the council intended. As time rolled on, and one after another 
of the colonists fell beneath its remorseless chariot, they were 
tenderly borne to their last resting-place almost in the shadow cast 
by the " meeting-house." After a considerable time it was found 
to be too small, and shortly after the abandonment of the old 
meeting-house, it was voted in town council to lay out another 
cemetery ; but no action was taken for some time. Finally a 
second burial-place was consecrated in 1 793, and thither many 
bodies were removed from the first. In passing, it may be said 
that this Second Burying Ground is about to be turned into a 
park. The most interesting interments within it were those of 
General Jedediah Huntington, first Collector of the Port, and John 
G. C. Brainard, the poet. No bodies have been interred in the 
old burying-place for years, except those of the town poor, and it 
has gradually sunk into neglect ; governors, magistrates, ministers. 



Selections from the Wri tings of Connecticut Women. 103 

law-makers, share oblivion alike with lowly paupers — striking 
comment upon the pomp and pageantry of mortal pride ! 

The old cemetery is most beautifully situated upon an elevated 
ridge a little northwest of the centre of the town. This point was 
selected because it was just north of the first meeting-house. An 
hour's research among its curious memorials to forgotten mortality 
would well repay the antiquarian. 

Here, beneath crumbling stone or discolored tablet, repose the 
"forefathers of the hamlet" — judges, divines, martyrs. Some are 
marked with an humble slab of sandstone just rising from the 
ground, the lettering of the quaint epitaph nearly defaced ; others, 
more pretentious, with marble centres bearing name, date of death, 
and a few verses — fearfully and wonderfully made — setting forth 
the virtues never discovered until death has laid his chill touch 
upon their possessor. 

Sunk below the turf, half covered with weeds, a great rent 
through its middle, lies the oldest tombstone east of the Connec- 
ticut River. It has bravely held its own against time's ravages; for 
the lettering of names, dates and epitaph, cut into the red sand- 
stone, is still legible, as follows : 

CAPTAINE RICHARD LORD, DECEASED. 

MAY 17, 1662, AETATIS SOAL 51. 

The bright starre of our cavallrie lyes here. 

Unto the state a counselour full deare 
And to ye truth a friend of sweet content. 

To Hartford towne a silver ornament. 
Who can deny to poore he was reliefe 

And in composing paro.xysms was chiefe. 
To marchantes as a pattern he might stand 

Adventuring dangers new by sea and land. 

The highly eulogized Richard was captain of the first cavalry 
company organized in the colony. " Composing paroxysms" is 
not to be interpreted as meaning that he dabbled in physics, but 
was (as Miss Caulkins suggests), probably an allusion to his 
happy faculty of arbitrating disputes. Near the north end is the 
tomb of the Winthrops and Livingstons. The inscription on 
Madam Winthrop's tomb is quite legible. As is known, neither 
the first or second governors were buried here. John Still Win- 
throp, grand-nephew.of the last Governor Winthrop, died in 1776 
at the beginning of the Revolution ; and, as it was impossible at 



I04 Selections fi-om the IVritiiis^s of Connect hnt IJ'oinen. 

that time to erect monuments, his body was placed beneath a rude 
granite slab near the centre of the ground, beside that of the third 
minister of the colony, Simon Bradstreet, who died in 1683. It 
was upon the Winthrop tomb that Arnold viewed the attack upon 
Fort Griswold. 

The Saltonstall tomb, containing the remains of Gurdon 
Saltonstall, who abandoned the pulpit for the gubernatorial chair, 
is in a good state of preservation, as is likewise that of one of the 
lords of Gardiner's Island. There are innumerable graves of the 
Coit family, though the writer does not know whether the bones 
of Captain Wm. Coit repose in the old cemetery or have been 
removed. This brave soldier was captain of an independent 
military company organized in New London in 1775. It took part 
in the battle of Bunker Hill; and Coit soon after was appointed 
captain of the Harrison, a schooner fitted out in Boston to cruise 
against the British. Frothingham, in his " Siege of Boston," says 
that Captain Wm. Coit was " The first man in the States who 
turned his majesty's bunting upside down." 

The tomb of the Brooks family is sealed. Broken, cracked and 
chipped are the tablets of the Prentis, Deshon (Deschamps, 
doubtless), Avery, and Christophers. More than two centuries 
have elapsed since the first of the proud Christophers was en- 
tombed ; and the coat of arms nearly defaced, the sandstone 
crumbling into dust, the rank grass matting itself above them, 
show how utterly forgotten are the proud race whose passions and 
pride set at naught the ordinances of their more temperate fellow- 
citizens. 

Every few yards one stumbles over some tiny stone marking 
the resting-place of some little one whom Jesus had called unto 
Himself ere the incorruptible had more than donned the garb of 
corruption. 

But some sleep beneath the sod whose place of rest is marked 
by no token of love or respect. Perhaps even now we stand upon 
the grave of some poor unfortunate, buried with as little ceremony 
as Tom Hood's pauper. Ah, well ! what matters it to the poor 
wretch, worn out in the pitiless battle of life, whether he rest at 
last beneath "dull, cold marble" in a minster transept, or sink, 
unknelled and unknown, into the sleep that knows not waking } 
But Nature hath a kind remembrance. The few wild-flowers, 
shedding their sweet fragrance over their dust, are a more touching 



Select ions from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 105 

epitaph than any hollow mockeries would be, for those whose ex- 
perience of life might be fitly summed up in the words, " Bubble, 
bubble, toil and trouble." 

Verily, the neglect and desolation of the place preach a lesson 
of mortality far more eloquently than could a Greenwood or an 
Auburn. How forcible and true the declaration, " Dust thou art, 
and unto dust shalt thou return ! " 

From the cemetery is a most beautiful view. Behind is a pla- 
teau thickly covered with houses against a background of dark, 
green hills; on the left, a continuation of the same ridge, crowned 
with picturesque homes ; to the right stretches away the whole 
town, with here and there a slender spire rising above the sur- 
rounding housetops ; in front, the entire slope down to the water's 
edge, with its fringe of warehouses and factories, the noble river 
intersecting the two shores, ^ — its broad surface glowing with a 
thousand hues beneath the setting sun ; the historic hills of Groton, 
their dark-green foliage crimsoning with the first tintings of 
autumn the grim, gray monument of brave Ledyard and his fel- 
low-martyrs, and over all the calm, blue sky, flecked with fleecy 
white ; the sun sinking slowly behind a mass of amber and purple 
and crimson and gold, — all forming a whole not easily forgotten. 

Everything spoke of peace and rest. A great calm seemed to 
fall upon the city of the dead, and something of the peace which 
passeth all understanding entered into the troubled heart. 

The sun sank low behind the western hills, a black cloud passed 
over it ; all was dark and cheerless. An instant, and it burst forth 
again in a blaze of transcendent splendor, and shed a halo of light 
over the old crumbling stones. Slowly the rays fade away, linger- 
ing tenderly on the forgotten graves, until the soft creeping twi- 
light came and wrapped the earth in its clinging gray mantle. 



io6 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

QUAM. 

BY JANE GAY FULLER. 

\Harpcr's Magazine.'] 

I HAD been several months in Florida and had never had a 
cart-ride, when one charming May afternoon my young 
friend Josie came bursting into my room with a face radiant 
with expectation, and exclaimed, " Hurrah for a ride ! Wouldn't 
you like a ride to Baymont this evening. Miss Jenny, in real 
' cracker ' style, with father to accompany us on horseback ? 
Don't say 'No' now ! The air from the beach will do us good, 
and you can find a plenty of new flowers on the way." 

I had no thought of saying "At?" to such a proposal, and we 
were ordered to be ready in half an hour. 

Baymont was a little plantation a few miles down the coast, 
accessible by land by the very worst of roads, through pine woods 
and marshy prairie. There was never any difiniculty in making 
the excursion on horseback, or, in more peaceable times, in the 
boat ; but we had been ill, and were unable to go so far by the 
former method, and the report of a great black war-steamer down 
the bay had driven nearly all small craft from the waters of 
Tampa. 

The ugliest horse on the place, old " Sancho," was just the 
fellow for such an expedition. He was accordingly caught, and 
collared, and saddled, instead of harnessed. A leather strap 
passed over the saddle to support the cart-tongues, while iron 
chain-traces kept the beast at a respectful distance. 

The cart was a narrow two-wheeled vehicle, scarcely larger 
than a New York hand-cart. The backboard let down for 
ingress, but was firmly secured against a too unceremonious 
egress. It was altogether a most rustic arrangement, equaled by 
nothing I had ever seen, except a fur-trader's team from the 
Selkirk Settlements ; but snug, nevertheless, and capable of con- 
taining three seats if arranged tete-a-tete. We had but two 
leather-bottomed chairs, with sundry cushions and blankets for 
stowing away the juveniles. The dogs barked tumultuously, and 
the darkies stood grinning around, while we deposited, first a 
basket of refreshments, then ourselves in the " little red carriage " 



Selections from the ]Vritings of Conneetic-iit Women. 107 

— as they called it — bandying their jokes all the time on poor 
" Sancho," who stood patiently biding his time. One of the 
younger ones evidently expected to be promoted to the seat of 
honor — the saddle — as such teams usually take a mounted driver; 
but after an aside consultation, it was decided that with, five, old 
and young, in the vehicle, a fat postillion might prove too much 
for Sancho's strength or courage. Mrs. C-^ could hold the lines, 
while the General directed movements from his charger. 

" All ready now ! " was the word of command as our escort, 
having made an end of inspection, vaulted into the saddle. " Call 
off Crocket ! Let Csesar come along ! Toshe, let us through the 
gates!" Those were the final orders, and in a few minutes we 
had passed the outer gate and were on the public highway, with 
sand to the horses' fetlocks, and the sun pouring down with 
tropical fervor. 

" This way," said the General, turning aside, after a little, into 
a forest trail. " We will have less sand and more shade now." 

" Isn't it pleasant here, and cool too } " the children asked. 
And we all responded " cool and pleasant" though somehow the 
words fell sideways from my lips ; for just that minute the cart 
passed from the summit of a ragged palmetto root to a deep rut 
below, threatening an overturn of chairs, and, as I fully believed, 
a general annihilation. 

" Do look at Miss Jenny ! " said Mrs. C , laughing immoder- 
ately. " She looks ' like she was skeered,' as the darkies say ! " 

" I am not frightened," I replied, putting as brave a face as I 
could upon the matter ; " but I do think we shall all get cured of 
dyspepsia this time." 

" I think it's nice ! " said Josie. " Oh, almost as good as a 
stage-ride ! " 

" With bruises scarcely yet healed from a terrible stage-ride 
across the peninsula, I replied, more truthfully than before, that I 
thought it was just about equal to a Florida stage-ride. 

The woods were really grand, with their tall pines towering 
heavenward, reminding one of Tom Hood's trees, whose "giant 
tops stood close against the sky." The myriad flowers beneath 
them elicited perpetual praise. Sometimes we could reach out 
and pull one, or break some blossoming shrub as we moved slowly 
forward. I found the bejaria here — a beautiful rhododendron, 
with orancre-like buds and fragrance — and mistook it at first for 



loS Sc/cc/ioiis from the Writings of Coiniecticiit Women. 

an azalia, though its blooms are regular, and much larger and 
whiter. Here, too, for the first time, I found the gay " Coral- 
tree " (Erythrina), with its lance-like scarlet banners. At every 
turn there was something new. 

Leaving the " piny woods," as they are denominated, we 
entered an oak opening — not the gnarled old oaks of the 
Northern country, but the deep, glossy evergreen of the South, 
the noblest of American forest trees. Throughout this whole 
region their branches are hung with the graceful tillandsia, whose 
drooping undulations always reminded me of church-yard willows 
— beautiful, but " mournfully solemn." Unlike the summer 
willow, however, the tillandsia is a perpetual weeper, never 
fading, never brightening with change of season or lapse of years. 
My first night's journey in Florida was through a forest of these 
solemn-draped trees. I gazed upon them like one fascinated, 
peering down every dim wood-path to see if some spectral army 
were not in procession there, until a stranger's voice broke the 
spell by inquiring whether I shuddered from the night air or from 
fear. 

To a little sandy prairie, covered with coarse sedge grass, 
dotted with myriad flowers, we came after leaving the opening. 
Though scarcely two miles from our starting-place the cart had 
had some heavy shocks, and we some sorry jolts. We were not 
sorry, therefore, to come to this bit of prairie, although no sign of 
a road was visible. The General led the way, and dismounting 
soon to hand me a new variety of the Deer-grass (Rhexia 
Virginica), discovered that one of our wheels was losing a tire. 
Here was a dilemma ! We had passed no house ; there was not 
one for two miles ahead. We could not go forward to Baymont, 
that was certain ; and we were not strong enough to walk back. 
The wheel had to be strengthened in some way. With the aid of 
a pocket-knife two or three wooden wedges were shaped, and then 
forced between the tire and rim, shrunken with recent drought. 
With watchful care we might hope to reach home in safety. 

In the pine-woods on the other side of the prairie was a well 
of water by a deserted house. It would not be very far out of our 
way, the General said, if we took the beach road back to town. 
We could go there, wet the cart-wheel, and get a fine glimpse of 
the bay, since we had lost the one we were promised. The 
diversion was voted unanimously. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut JVonie7i. 109 

Then, as we drove slowly along, they told me the history of 
the house we were approaching. A planter from Georgia, who 
had a beautiful young invalid wife, built and furnished it for a 
temporary residence. It was in a charming spot ; a natural open- 
ing in the forest, elevated so as to command a fine view of the 
water as well as of the surrounding country, sloping gradually 
down to the bay. Oleanders in full bloom, and orange-trees 
bending with unripe fruit, stood all around the rustic cottage. 
Broad verandas were on every side, with vines running wild even 
to the roof and chimney. The cottage looked charming still ; but 
the negro-houses in the yard, with the palma-christi growing rank 
and neglected around them, looked deserted and desolate. 

Many reminiscences of the house were recalled as we sat by 
the well before it, from the day the strangers first took possession, 
until the sadder one when the young wife was laid under the pines 
near by to await a removal to the land of her childhood ; since 
which time it had stood tenantless and forsaken. I could not 
help thinking, while listening to the mournful story, how many 
such hopes of returning health had been disappointed ; how 
many, like that fair stranger, had closed their eyes amidst scenes 
unfamiliar, afar from friends and home. 

" I think the wheel will stand a drive on the beach now," the 
General said, as he dashed a final bucket of water upon it. "If so 
we will not lose our trip entirely." 

We started forward again. The bay was spread out blue and 
broad before us, dotted only here and there with a sail ; for the 
rumor of war vessels had daunted even the bold fishermen of 
Tampa. One solitary ship lay at anchor in the distance, the 
latest arrival from Havana. We did not wonder, gazing on the 
lovely scene, that men visionary and poetical, searching through 
the New World for a Fountain of Youth, should have called that 
green, flowery-skirted bay " Temper We only marveled that the 
successor of the Spaniard could have so changed and corrupted 
the name from its sweet original. 

It was only a few hundred yards from the cottage down to the 
water-side, but the path, which had been a winding one, was so 
overgrown as to be pursued with extreme difficulty. With our 
careful escort we reached the end of it in safety, and discovered 
suddenly a smoke on the shelly beach, and a young negro sitting 
over it. We had come upon him so suddenly there was no chance 



I lO Sclccd'ojis from the ]]'ritings of Connecticut Women. 

to escape, even had he desired it, for one bound of Caesar would 
have brought him back in an instant. 

" A little darkey roasting oysters," said Josie. " Let's all get 
out and have some ! " 

" Hush !" said her cousin, " I'll bet he's a runaway." 

The General waited neither to listen to nor make comments, 
but dismounted directly, and stood face to face with the negro. 

" What are you doing here ? " he inquired, sternly. 

" Roasting birds, Sir," he replied, handing up a living young 
mocking-bird, while on the coals before him lay the body of 
another half-cooked. 

" Whose boy are you ?" was the next question. 

The lad pointed down the bay, and said in a frightened tone, 
" My massa lives away down there, sir ; I'se forgot his name." 

" No you haven't," said the General, taking his saddle-strap 
and proceeding to tie the young runaway's hands. 

" Don't tie me. Sir," said the boy, " I've been looking for you. 
I want to go home with you, Sir ! " 

" Do you know me ? " 

" No, Sir, don't know you ; but been hunting for you. Sir. 
Want to live with you. Won't you buy me. Sir?" 

" I cannot unless I know your master's name," the General 
said, smiling. 

" He lives way down to ole Tampa, Sir — Mr. Clay — don't 
you know /i?'m ? " 

" I know Mr. Clay, but he lives more than twenty miles from 
here. Is he your master ? " 

" Yes, Sir." 

" What is your name ?" 

" Ouam." 

" How long since you left home ? " 

" Two days, Sir." 

" Did your master whip you ?" 

" No, Sir; said he'd cut my yers off! " 

" Did you believe him ?" 

"Yes, Sir; said so two times." 

" Who else is with you here in the woods .''" 

" Nobody, Sir." 

" Don't tell me a lie, now. I believe there are more of you 
here, and I want to know just how many." 



Selections from tlic ]\'yi tings of Connecticut IVonicn. iii 

"Ain't no more, Sir." 

Was the boy telling the truth, we asked ourselves, as we sat 
silent and almost breathless, listening to the foregoing conversa- 
tion, or was there a company of fugitives waiting in that lonely 
spot an escape to the expected war-steamers ? A number of 
persons had lost negroes recently ; might they not be banded 
together for freedom? It was a serious question to us invalid 
women and children, unarmed and helpless. We knew the 
General had not even a pistol with him, and we were more than 
two miles from a human habitation. 

"Isn't this a most singular adventure?" he said, turning to us, 
with his liridle-rein in one hand and the end of the saddle- 
strap which bound the fugitive in the other. " The breaking, the 
turning aside, and finally coming to this spot so foreign to our 
purpose." 

It was singular ; and we were not sorry to give up our beach 
ride, and find ourselves once more out of the thick woods and in the 
direct path, rugged though it was, leading toward home. 

Quam made no effort to escape, but went trudging along before 
us, chatting with the General, and assuring him every now and then 
" he was out hunting for him." There was an expression of 
imbecility on his otherwise fine face, and his simple words and ways 
interested us so much that before we reached home he had won half 
a dozen friends. 

" What will you do with him, General ?" I asked, with a little 
visible anxiety, perhaps, as that gentleman assisted me from the 
"red carriage." 

" Torture him," he replied, with ill-concealed gravity, " after the 
manner of all slave-owners. According to the laws of this State, I 
must either lodge the boy in jail or become responsible for his value 
if he escapes." 

Josie's arms were around her father's neck in a moment. 

" I know what you would say," he said, "and will not send the 
little fellow any farther than the kitchen to appease his hunger. I 
prefer to accept the responsibility of keeping him." 

Not many days after we saw an elderly gentleman riding up the 
carriage-way. The dogs having, as usual, given fair warning of the 
approach of a stranger, every negro was out peeping through the 
paling, ready to open the gate. I should have said every one but 
Quam, who was missing, which led Aunt Lissy to remark, " Spec 



112 Sclcc/ioiis Iroin the ]Vritings of Connect nut Women. 

dat ar's Quam's ole masser. 'Pears like the chile knew he's comin'. 
If dat's him he's got the gift of ugly powerful large." 

The man certainly looked plain-featured enough to justify Aunt 
Lissy's remark, as he alighted and came up to the piazza where we 
were seated, to inquire for the " gentleman of the house." He was 
directed to the office. In half an hour or so the General came from 
thence with the stranger, and after seeing him mounted, and dis- 
patching an avant courrier to the highway, he joined us upon the 
piazza. 

" Well, Josie, I have l)ought Ouam," he said, addressing himself 
to his daughter. 

" For how much, papa ?" 

" One thousand dollars." 

" Isn't he cheap ? " 

" I don't know how that will prove. He is a stout, able-bodied 
boy ; and though I don't need him exactly, I feel an attachment 
for the little scamp. You will have something now to make you 
remember the broken cart -ride." 

Mr. Clay had scarcel}' reached the outer gate before Guam made 
his appearance in the yard, turning somersaults and performing 
other gymnastic feats, to the great amusement of the children, 
black and white, who all rushed out to question him, delighted with 
the little rogue's smartness. 

" Where were you, Quam, all the time the old fellow was here ? 
Do tell us?" 

" Hid in de ditch." 

" In the ditch ! Gh, Quam ! It's full of moceasins. Weren't 
you afraid ? " 

" Seed one — dat's all. Warn't afeared ob him." 

"Father has bought you," said Josie, "and given you to me. 
Aren't you glad ?" 

He grinned, turned a new somersault, and was oif without any 
further expression of his feelings on the subject. 

Quam soon became a great favorite, simple as he seemed. His 
persistence in insisting that he was out hunting for the General was 
amusing, and so greatly attached his new master to him that he was 
allowed many privileges not in the usual order. Gne of these was a 
boat to row on the river when his day's work was done, with Uncle 
Charles to teach iiim the practice of the oars. Charles, who was a 
most accomplished boatman, declared his pupil to be " a right smart 



Selections from the Writings of Connccticnl W'oincn. 113 

chance," and said he would soon be able to pull the ladies across the 
Hillsboro. 

And yet there was something mysterious about the boy, who, 
oaf-like one hour, was anything l)ut a fool the next. When alone 
he was always talking to himself, and gesticulating like an orator. 
Ask the darkies what he said, and they uniformly told the same 
story, "'Pears like he don't know hissclf ! All fetich, like ole 
Quambo his fader, who come from Guinea ! " But there seemed too 
much method in the boy's manoeuvres ; he played his games too 
skillfully into his own hands to warrant a full belief in his simplicity, 
notwithstanding his curious questions and monkey tricks. 

As Uncle Charles predicted, the boy soon became a " right 
smart" oarsman; but that was not the boundary of his ambition. 
Climbing to an old loft one day he discovered some half-worn sails. 
The next Sunday morning one of these was attached to his yawl, 
and Ouam went boldly forth to try his skill as sailor. The whole 
family watched his assay from the front piazza, and orders were 
given to one of the men to get another boat ready in case of 
accident. 

" De berry debil in him for dare," old Horace said, as he 
departed to obey the command, rather reluctantly we thought ; for 
we heard him mutter, "A triflin', no account nigger no how." 

There was a stiff breeze on the bay, and word was sent to the 
young adventurer by no means to go out of the river ; so up and 
down, over and across he went, as though the wind were every way 
for his special accommodation. Sometimes the little sail dipped 
almost to the water's edge, and the light craft seemed almost sure 
to overturn ; but the next minute, by some lucky turn, it was all 
right again ; and Ouam, like all novices, was learning wit by 
experience and observation. 

Wearied at length with watching his rash movement, the 
General gave orders to call him in ; and after various unsuccessful 
attempts he brought his boat up squarely to the wharf, and for the 
rest of the day was a hero. 

Every Sunday morning the trial was repeated until it became 
no unusual thing to see Guam's sail, no larger than the wing of 
the petrel, floating away among the green islands of the bay. The 
water seemed to be his favorite element. 

" Ain't you afeared, Gineral, that boy o' yourn will be off one 
o' these times ? " inquired a " poor white trash " one day. 



114 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Jf'onnn. 

" Not in the least ; nothing would tempt that boy to leave me !" 

" Wa'al, maybe you're right and I'm wrong ; but a thousand are 
a heap o' money to put in a leaky boat, and I alius notice these 
runaway chaps is mighty onsartin." 

Notwithstanding the General's confidence there was something 
in the man's words that impressed me as an echo of my own 
thoughts ; but as I was only a Northerner, and knew very little 
about the strong ties of the " Institution," I hadn't a word to say. 

Ouam had been in the family several months, and all the while 
" contented as a kitten," as Aunt Lissy was wont to affirm, and so 
he appeared, and as happy too. Though he had made consider- 
able progress in navigation he still talked gibberish and played the 
fool as much as ever. Uncle Charles said there was not a better 
field hand on the place, though " Mar's Jesse and Miss Josie would 
clean done spile him sure." 

Late in autumn a sugar-planter who lived on the bay came to 
hire a hand to cut cane. Quam was just the boy he wanted, hav- 
ing been accustomed to the work on his old master's plantation. 
Having little for him to do at home, he was let for a month, and 
went off cutting capers and chewing a whip-stock, thus signifying 
to the other darkies how he would soon be luxuriating on the 
sweet, juicy stalks of the cane, of which they are immoderately 
fond. 

" Oh, Quam ! bring me home some green stalks," called out 
Josie, as he rode away. 

" And bring me some red ones," said her cousin. 

" And me all the little rattoons," said black Toshe. 

Quam only grinned, chewed his stick and promised nothing. 
A day or two after we sat fishing on the wharf in the warm 
sunshine. I was thinking how at that very moment the chill 
November winds might be howling, or the rains sobbing around 
my far away New England home. For nearly half a year no word 
nor message from that home had reached the wanderer, and busy 
fancy had conjured a thousand" ills during those long months of 
suspicious silence. I could not help feeling sad, though the tall 
pomegranate trees, gay with myriad scarlet bells, hung over us, 
and the sweet cape-jessamines were white with snowy blossoms all 
around, and the air was full of the fragrance of roses. I said we 
were fishing, but the mottled sheep-heads were playing around one 
hook guiltless of bait, for I was thinking diVid x\oX. fishing. 



» Selections frtnii I lie IVritiiios of Connecticut Women. T15 

" Mr. Beaucardie's new boat is coming up here to the wharf," 
said one of the girls, arousing me from my reverie. " Look! Miss 
Jennie. Isn't it a beauty ? " 

It was a beauty indeed; light and graceful, and bright, too, with 
its green paint, as any tropical bird. It had two sails, white as 
snow, I might have affirmed; but Josie said as white as cotton; for 
what did she, a child of the " sunny South," know of snow, or of 
its whiteness ? The boat just stopped in passing to drop us a 
string of golden bananas, the fruit of fruits, to my taste, when 
freshly plucked. The Beaucardies were on their way to one of 
the orange-groves of old Tampa, and promised us an abund- 
ance of sweet China oranges, grape-fruit, and shaddock on their 
return. 

A week went by, and we saw nothing of the pretty boat and 
promised fruit. But in the meantime the planter who had hired 
Ouam came to say he had quit two nights before, and taken with 
him his best cane-knife, a loss he could not replace on account of 
the blockade. He believed the culprit was lurking about home 
somewhere, and demanded an investigation. The negroes were 
all summoned to confession, but no one had seen anything of 
Ouam since he went off chewing the whip-stock. 

"What had become of the boy, and why had betaken the cane- 
knife ?" were questions we asked ourselves, and asked one another. 
The darkies said he had gone to the swamps, and wanted the 
knife to dig roots with, and to defend himself if hunted. The 
General shook his head, said the boy had only got homesick, and 
would not be long missing. We hoped he was right, for we had 
been told dark stories of the wolves and panthers, alligators and 
rattlesnakes of the Florida swamps, and the thought of poor Ouam 
thus companioned was not pleasant. 

A strict watch was set that night, induced by the belief that he 
might come home to sleep and be off again in the morning for fear 
of punishment. Crocket — the sagacious old black blood-hound, 
whose youth had been spent in hunting Seminoles in the tangled 
everglades — was stationed with a negro by the outer gate ; while 
another man, with the yellow bull-dog, watched an opposite avenue. 
Aunt Lissy was counseled to lie down in the kitchen, as it was not 
unlikely the poor fellow might be hungry and seek there for food ; 
and the General declared his own intention of sleeping with one 
eye and both ears open upon the hall lounge. 



Ii6 Selections from tJie W'ritiiigs of Connect icttt JTomen. 

Josie lingered and cast most appealing glances to me. Know- 
ing what was in her mind, and that she wished me to make an 
appeal for Ouam in case he was caught, I said — " You will allow us 
to hold a court in the morning and try the offender before you 
inflict upon him any of Solomon's judgments, will you not, 
General ? " 

" He richly deserves a whipping, and should have had it too, if 
he had run away from home," he replied, laughing. "As it is, I 
think it will be sufficient punishment to send him back with the 
knife, and make him ask Mr. M'Loud's forgiveness." 

We were "calculating without our host." 

Neither dog-bark nor footfall disturbed the calm summer-like 
air of that autumn night. No Quam came for the roasted yams 
which Aunt Lissy had left for him on the kitchen table ; no dusky 
form disturbed the blanket and straw that made his bed in the 
corner of the tool-shop. The only sounds heard during the night 
were the footsteps of his master, as he stole softly out to assure 
himself of the vigilance of the watch. 

The next morning found us all a little " blue," and it was pro- 
posed to go to Idleboro — a little retreat away in the pine woods to 
which the family some two years before had fled from yellow-fever. 
As it had the reputation of being the resort of fugitives and cow- 
hunters, Josie suggested we might possibly see or hear something of 
Ouam 

As we galloped along the solitary way every charred stump 
and tree seemed dodging us. It needed little imagination to induce 
the belief that the whole forest was alive with runaways, although 
the entire seven miles were passed without sight of a single human 
being. None but a practiced eye, I am certain, would ever have 
tracked the way to that sylvan solitude. 

The mansion, which was of unhewn logs, consisted of one 
capacious apartment, with unhewn floor, and wooden shutters in 
place of windows. The kitchen, commonly a detached buikhngin 
the South, lacked only a floor to rival the family residence, while 
the stables equaled either in pretension ; yet a family accustomed 
to both comforts and luxuries bore away so many pleasant recollec- 
tions of a five months' residence here as to make it a spot of last- 
ing interest. They had their horses, their books, a violin, and 
guitar. Only a little away, following a path they pointed out, was 
a bend of the Hillsboro where they went to fish for perch and 



Selections fi'OJii the JVriiings of Connectiatt IVoincn. 1 1 7 

mullet, and occasionally they took a tent and went over to Rocky 
Point for oysters, camping out all night upon the beach, and 
returning next day with carts heavily laden with the precious 
bivalves. Thrice a week a negro left in town came to a shanty in 
the woods and dropped the mail, with such stores as they needed 
from time to time. And this was Idleboro. 

We were looking for Quam, who had probably never heard of 
the place. There was not a print in the sand around to show that 
any foot had pressed it for weeks ; so after taking our lunch and 
gathering a flower or two, as memorials of a spot which one at 
least of the party would never revisit, we mounted again and were 
off on a ne\y route homeward. Two hours brought us to the great 
gate, beside which Toshe was asleep in the sun until aroused by 
Crocket to duty. 

"Mr. Frazer wants to see Mar'ser Jesse ! Spec he's hearn tell 
suffin bout Quam," she said, rubbing her eyes open as we entered. 

"Frazer is a croaker," said the General, "who does not believe 
in niggers. He thinks the world was made just large enough for 
white people ! " 

" So," I could not help reflecting, " thinks many a poor white 
man, in a land where every avenue of labor is choked and 
effectually closed by servitude." 

The man met us in the yard, and said, while we were dismount- 
ing, " Wa'al, Gineral, Beaucardie's lost his boat !" 

" Ah ! who was that } The blockaders got hold of it 1 " 

" Edzactly ! That's what we think, without no trouble of com- 
ing for it. You see Beaucardie's been down to old man Phillippe's 
for a week or so. Wednesday night he loaded his boat with 
oranges and oysters, reckoning on a right smart start in the morn- 
ing. But when morning come, boat and all was missing." 

" It may have got detached, and floated off." 

" It got unhitched, any how. A man down on one of the keys 
below Old Tampa noticed a boat just about daybreak, with one 
man in it all to himself, putting acrost the bay in the direction of 
the light-house. Thar's where the war steamers is, you know, just 
outside, and the man calculated somebody was going with news to 
the Yankees. He hailed the boat to the top of his lungs, but it 
had a fair breeze, and was going it with oars besides, and it hadn't 
no notion to stop and let on about its business. The man thinks 
it got fetched up in a squall though afore it reached the vessel, as 



iiS Sc/cc/ioiis fi'ODi tJie W'ritings of Connect ic7it Women. 

a powerful tough one come on that forenoon. But if it didn't go 
down, the Yankees has got it fairly." 

" Was the man black or white ? " the General asked, with a 
flushed cheek and flashing eyes. 

"That's what he couldn't well tell. He wore a wide-brim 
palmeter all pulled down over his face till his color was no account. 
Then it warn't fairly light ; but M'Loud says it was your boy for 
sure ! " 

" I think it was," said the General, with the air of one awaking 
to a painful conviction. " I think I was deceived in Quam, and 
that he is a grand rascal ! " 

There were no more watches set for the runaway, though it 
was not certain he took the boat, as two or three white men dis- 
appeared about the same time ; but as the white men had boats of 
their own, every one believed it, especially as he was reputed to 
have been at the plantation of his old master, which adjoined 
Phillippe's, the very night the boat disappeared. 

Several months after the event I made my own escape from 
" Dixie," but have nowhere met Quam. Amidst a group of contra- 
bands at Hilton Head was one who favored him in his monkey 
tricks, but it was not he. A ragged young darkey with a feather 
in his cap, beating a drum down by the New York Battery, after- 
ward arrested my attention, and caused me to sing out, " Stop, 
driver! " Face to face with the sable drummer, I expected to hear 
him say, " / was looking for yon, Miss ; " but the creature only 
stared in stupid astonishment, leaving me to repeat my first order, 
" On to the St. Nicholas !" Quite recently I fancied I had found 
him sure in a group of " citizens of African descent" on Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue, not far from the foot of Capitol Hill. It proved to 
be only another of my blunders, and Quam is still " non est 
inventus ! " Whether his little sail-boat reached the blockaders in 
safety, and he still lives, or whether, through the stormy waves of 
the Bay of Tampa, he passed to the immortal freedom of the skies, 
I cannot tell. If any of the readers of this article can solve the 
mystery, I beg for a sequel. 



Selections from I he IVrithigs of Coiuiecticut Women. 119 
A WINTER MORNING. 

BY MARY FERRY. 

[/ndipendent, ISSO.] 

The snowy hills just tinged with rosy light, 

Like maidens pure beneath the smile of love, 
The crystal river clad in armor bright. 

Reflecting glory from the sky above. 

The white-robed pines in solemn beauty stand, 

Like hoary age near to the pearly gate. 
Or guardian spirits watching o'er the land. 

Or vestured priests, the oracles of fate. 

The cold white earth still rests in blissful sleep. 

The shadows slumber on the mountain side. 
But through the sky the glorious dawn doth creep. 

Flinging afar her rainbow banners wide. 

The sparrow brown on frosty bough doth sit. 

His pretty feathers shielding him from cold. 
In dove-cotes warm the pigeons coo and flit. 

The white sheep wistful look from out the fold. 

In patient beauty wait the sculptured trees, 

Their fairy fingers traced against the sky, 
More lovely now than with their wealth of leaves, 

Or when their verdant boughs sweet zephyrs sigh. 

Now one by one the shadows disappear. 

Now hillside, vale, and river grow more bright, 

From royal couch the lazy sun draws near. 

The village windows catch the golden light. 

The radiance grows until the earth awakes. 

And happy life doth everywhere prevail ; 
Gray night hath fled — the morning breaks, 

The winter morn, so calm, so pure, so pale. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



DE MASSA OB DE SHEEPFOL'. 



BY MARY PRATT McLEAN GREENE. 



De massa ob de sheepfol' 
Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, 
Look out in de gloomerin' meadows 
Whar de long night rain begin — 
So he call to de hirelin' shepahd, 
Is my sheep, is dey all come in ? 

Oh, den, says de hirelin' shepahd, 
Des's some, dey's black and thin. 
And some, dey's po' ole weddas, 
But de res', dey's all brung in. 
But de res', dey's all brung in. 

Den de massa ob de sheepfol' 

Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, 

Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows, 

Whar de long night rain begin — 

So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', 

Callin' sof. Come in, Come in, 

Callin' sof, Come in. Come in. 

Den up tro' de gloomerin' meadows, 
Tro' de col' night rain and win'. 
An' up tro' de gloomerin' rain-paf 
Whar de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin, 
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol' 
Dey all comes gadderin' in, 
De po' los' sheep of de sheepfol' 
Dey all comes gadderin' in. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut IVoincn. 
THEY SAW NO MAN SAVE JESUS ONLY. 



BY SARAH R. TRUMBULL. 



So near to heaven as earth may be 
On mountain-top behold the three. 

Their faces bowed in dust ; 
Subdued and tremulous with fear, 
Fled are their dreams of shelter here 

And gone is lofty trust. 

Close pressing now the mountain-sod 
And crushed beneath the voice of God, 

Helpless they cling to earth, 
Till friendly hand on each is laid 
And terror in their souls is stayed 

While faith again has birth. 

As from the dust their heads were raised 
'Twas " Jesus only " on them gazed ; 

How blest the vision clear ! 
Enough that He in earthly state 
With them should be content to wait 

And keep them free from fear. 

For not to Him in heavenly dress 
Might they their earthly garments press. 

Nor soil His raiment white ! 
Nor might they hear that thrilling sound 
Which made the courts of heaven resound 

From clouds of dazzling light. 

None may the burning vision fear 
And none celestial voices hear 

But with the Saving One ; 
We have no sight to lift above. 
No ears for strains of heavenly love 

Till Christ is seen — alone. 

Then — with no earthly comfort near. 
No lover's voice, no friend to cheer. 

We look — His gaze to meet ; 
Though bending to our low estate. 
The heavenly glory lingers late : 

We worship at His feet ! 



[Hailford CouraitL] 



122 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



FOR HER KING'S SAKE. 

BY HELEN EVERTSON SMITH. 

\Springfield Republican^ 

Part I. 

IN the northwestern part of Connecticut the Taghanic hills 
having risen precipitately from the Housatonic river, slope 
gently away to the west in a succession of long, terrace-like 
sweeps down to the valley of the little Webotuck in the eastern 
part of the State of New York. On these westward sloping hills 
of Connecticut the lovely village of Sharon was early planted by 
settlers who had eyes for beauty as well as for fertility, for while 
its broad, elmshaded main street lies sheltered from easterly 
winds under the protection of the Taghanic hills and woods, it is 
yet high enough to get far-reaching views over hill and dale from 
the rounding purple peaks of the Berkshires on the north to the 
faint, far Catskills on the west or the level blue heights of the 
Chestnut ridge stretching out southward. 

In colonial days Sharon had been a prosperous settlement and 
had gained an aspect of much comfort and of comparative wealth. 
It is true that at the outbreak of the Revolution the wood-piles in 
many cases still lay by the front-door steps and all barns and out- 
buildings were as near as possible to the houses — for the settler in 
a new country had no time or strength to waste in digging half- 
miles of snow-path to get from his house to his barn in the winter 
— but the dwellings were large, commodious, and, for that day, 
convenient and comfortable. One settler, bringing from England 
reminiscences of the manor-house of his fathers, had built on a hill 
overlooking the main street and the well-watered Sharon valley, a 
large stone mansion with walls thick and strong enough for a fort 
of those days, with lofty ceilings and a high roof, something of the 
style we call mansard to-day, but having more boldness and grace 
of outline. It is necessary to describe this house, because on an 
understanding of its construction depends much of the interest of 
our simple story. 

The basement of the front or main part of the house was a full 
story in height above the ground, affording very large rooms for 
kitchens and quarters for many servants (all negro slaves), while 



Sc/cctwjis from the JVrit/ngs oj Connecticut Women. 123 

at the rear the broad, branching wing itself forming a large house, 
with long and sweeping roofs, sat only about two feet or less above 
the soil. Under this wing were the cellars, and between them 
and the front basement was no communication. All the interior 
walls of both were of solid and beautiful masonry; a masonry 
which defies time and is as perfect to-day as when first laid. 
Around the western, southern and part of the northern sides of 
the principal floor ran a wide and open gallery, or as we would now 
call it, a piazza. All the rooms were large, and on this floor were 
broad halls, a library, a parlor, four bedrooms and an immense 
dining room. The latter occupied one-half of this floor of the 
wing and opened into the hall of the main house by a low but hos- 
pitably broad doorway through four feet of solid stone wall. 

Opposite this door, and nearly thirty feet from it, yawned the 
great fireplace, to supply which logs were drawn in by a horse 
trained for the purpose. As this fireplace was eight feet broad 
by nearly six in hight and five in depth, it may be fancied that in 
addition to the great back-log, and slightly smaller fore-log, there 
would be needed a goodly quantity of lighter wood to feed its capa- 
cious maw, and tradition assures us that its regular meal was "half 
a cord of wood." 

To afford room for this fireplace and seven others of smaller 
dimensions, three on this floor and one on each of its sides on the 
floor above, the chimney occupied a space of twelve feet square in 
the center of the wing. At the time of which we write the wing 
had been built for many years, and, to escape the tax imposed in col- 
onial days upon fireplaces, all but three of those in this chimney had 
been walled up, so that the chimney stood then, as now, a great, 
square tower-like pile of masonry, reaching from the cellar floor to 
several feet above the ridge of the roof, growing somewhat smaller 
as it ascended. 

The second story of the wing was in the roof and only partly 
finished, while the third story was but an open garret, narrower 
than the floor below by reason of the roof's slope. The main part 
or front of the mansion was yet incomplete, the wing having been 
built and occupied before and during the erection of the front, 
which from the imperfect nature of the forces then at the builder's 
command, and the exceeding thoroughness of the work itself, was 
a very slow matter. Hence, at the opening of the war which 
events had not yet decided whether we should call a Rebellion or 



124 Selections from I lie IVi'iiiiii^s of Conneeticiit JFomen. 

a Revolution, the construction of the house had not been finished, 
and then all proceedings had stopped, for every man and every 
penny were needed in the country's service. No time was there 
now to think of private concerns, and at this moment the owner 
and builder of the house was serving as a company captain in 
Washington's sorely-tried army. 

In the autumn of 1777 had come the first considerable success 
to our arms, giving great hopes of the future independence of the 
colonies. We cannot now think how great had been the fear, or 
conceive how much greater had been the courage of a few scattered 
thousands of untrained men who had dared to brave the whole 
power of one of the most powerful of the nations. It was not a 
courage born of ignorance, for the early settlers of our country 
were an intelligent race and counted well the cost before they 
entered upon the struggle whose end could be but one of two 
things: — success and independence for all; or, failure and oppress- 
ion for all and death, a traitor's death at the end of a hangman's 
rope, for many. 

Every step the British had taken thus far in this war had been 
felt as an added insult and injury, and not least among the causes 
of ill feeling was the employment of the Hessian troops. These 
men of alien race, speaking no language but their own dialect of 
German, who were regarded as cattle by their own prince and sold 
by him for an average of $681 per head, — not more than the sell- 
ing price of a first rate negro hand in those days when slavery ex- 
isted all over the colonies — kept under the severest discipline by 
their ofificers, but allowed by them to plunder and burn freely, 
that they might get a reward in that way of booty, seeing that 
there was no other reward possible for men who were fighting only 
because they were too imbruted to know their own strength and 
rise and overturn their tyrant — these Hessians were hated with an 
intensity of which we to-day can form little idea. They have been 
merciless foes, and great indeed was the rejoicing when among the 
troops surrendered by Burgoyne nearly 4,000 Hessians had been 
thrown into our hands. 

In June of 1778 these captured Hessians, together with about 
1,600 captive British troops and their officers, were marched down 
from Saratoga toward New York, where it was hoped an exchange 
might be effected. A division of about 1,800 of them, under the 
charge of a small escort of Continental troops, came by way of 



Selections from the Writings of Coftnecticut Women. 125 

Sharon in Connecticut. Here the rank and file of the Continent- 
als and their prisoners were encamped on the broad meadow 
which sloped westerly from the stone mansion we have described, 
their little white tents, arranged in street-like rows at regular in- 
tervals, extending nearly half a mile square. In the house itself 
the best rooms were all given up to our own officers, nothing be- 
ing deemed good enough for the use of those who were fighting 
for our country and the common weal ; while in the great garret 
of the main house were quartered the British and Hessian officers. 

During the absence of the owner the house was occupied by his 
brother, the village pastor, with his comely wife and bright young 
children. Madam Smith — such was the title given to the minis- 
ters' wives in those days — was herself the granddaughter of a baro- 
net who had served under Cromwell, and her husband was de- 
scended from a line of Non-conformists and Independents who 
doubtless have all been Cromwellians, had they remained in Eng- 
land to a sufficiently late day to have fought under that standard. 
Hence rebellion, otherwise a love of freedom, was in the veins of 
all the household. 

But under this roof-tree was sheltered a fair damsel whose 
father was a tory and an officer in the English army. She had 
fled to Sharon for refuge from her own party at the time when 
the Hessians burnt the village of Kingston on "the River," as it 
is still the custom in that part of Connecticut to call the Hudson. 
They were not discriminating — those hated Hessians — and burnt 
the houses of tory and rebel with a perfect impartiality, having first 
plundered them both of every article which had a money value. 

Margaret Kane's mother had been a friend of Madam Smith's, 
and for the sake of that friendship she now sheltered the mother- 
less, and, in the opinion of the patriots, the worse than fatherless 
girl. She was grateful for the shelter; she hated the Hessians 
almost as much as if she were a rebel, but her heart beat warmly for 
the flag her father served under and the uniform he wore ; so it 
was not without reason that good Madam Smith distrusted her 
young charge and thought it was better to confine her in her 
room during the stay of the prisoners, for each one of them were 
worth one of our own dear boys in an exchange, and to allow 
even one to escape was to throw away the liberty and perhaps the 
life of some dear fellow "worth forty Britishers or one hundred 
Hessians." 



126 Selections from tJie Writings of Connecticut Womc7i. 

So Margaret was securely locked up in one of the eastern bed- 
rooms of the long wing's second story, where the only window 
was high from the floor and strongly barred, while the door was 
stout and well bolted on the outer side. But Love is not alone in 
laughing at locksmiths. Margaret's first care was to examine 
closely the walls which inclosed her. She found a closet, but in it 
was no concealed door; the window-bars were all firm; the room- 
door showed no signs of yielding to her pressure. 

The fire-place in this room instead of being walled up, had 
been supplied with a " fire-board " of plank covered with iron, 
which after much tugging Margaret was able to remove, but the 
prospect thus offered of climbing up the flue was neither agreeable 
nor promising. Even if she could pursue its sooty windings till she 
reached the top, she would then find herself but helplessly perched 
high above the ridge-pole, with an excellent chance for capture 
whether she stayed there or fell to the far ofT ground. There was 
evidently no hope in this, yet she could not leave the fire-place long 
at a time. There and there only was the smallest promise of escape, 
and if she could escape, surely it should go hard with her if some 
captive should not be set at liberty also ! The sun was fast sinking 
and she must find quickly if there existed here any way of escape. 

The fire-place, though a small one for its day, was still of 
sufficient dimensions for her to get into upon her knees, and pro- 
tecting herself from the soot as well as she could by removing her 
gown and arraying herself in a skirt and coat extemporized from 
some salt sacks which had been left lying upon a shelf of the closet, 
she proceeded to feel carefully about the interior of the fire-place. 
All its sides seemed equally covered by a hard and polished soot 
which the smokes of many winters had left upon them, but on the 
left side there was certainly a difference perceptible to the touch. 
She felt again, eagerly, tremulously. Yes ! it was true. This side 
was not of brick or stone, but of something continuous. The soot 
was alike on all sides, but the stones of the chimney felt very differ- 
ent from this. She knocked upon it, and a sound, at once hollow 
and metallic, gave response. Apparently the something was of 
iron, and it separated this fire-place from some other hollow or open 
space. 

Romances were not many in those days, and none had it been 
Margaret's lot to see, but the fire-side narrator still flourished, and 
many a tale had our Margaret heard of secret rooms and hidden 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 127 

doors, and her heart beat fiercely with the joy of her discovery and 
the fear of being discovered. 

She knocked again. The sound was the same, — metallic and 
hollow. Her small white hands carefully explored every inch of 
the grimy surface of this metallic side. There was here, apparently 
a sheet of iron about one and a half feet wide and a trifle more than 
three feet high, extending from the top to the bottom of the fire- 
place ; but she could find no trace of hinge, bolt, lock or bar, 
though there was a small but well-defined crack around all sides. 
At last she thought the bolt must be on the other side, and perhaps 
it might yield to a push. 

There was so much noise around the house that she felt sure no 
one could hear her, and she struck against the door with all her 
weight and force. It did not yield, but shook encouragingly be- 
neath her blows. The little soot-blackened hands were beginning to 
bleed, yet she had effected nothing. Had she anything which she 
could use as a wedge to insert in the crack ? She could not think 
of anything she had with her that would answer the purpose, but 
presently she felt something on the brick hearth beneath her knee. 
It was the handleless blade of a rusty old table-knife. Inserting 
this in the crack of the door — if door it was — she brought it down 
the right-hand side until, about half-way down, she found it could 
go no farther. She took it out and began the same method of 
search up from the bottom. Arrived at almost the same place, the 
old blade again met an obstruction, but this time she had put more 
force into her upward pressure. The obstruction yielded ; she raised 
the latch and pushed open the little door. 

To her disappointment she found no light, only a darker, higher 
and larger space than the one she was in. Carefully feeling her way 
with feet and hands, Margaret groped half-way round what appeared 
to be a dark and soot-covered closet until she found another door. 
Here there appeared a very small chink on one side, through which 
glimmered a feeble light apparently above or below a bolt or latch 
on the other side. 

She paused and listened. Down-stairs in the great dining-room 
she could hear the loud jollity of the Continental officers at their 
evening meal. From outside the house came the confused sounds 
of many hurrying feet, — of Madam Smith's hospitable and per- 
emptory orders, of the negro servants' ready " Yes, massah," and 
" Yes, missus," and all the bustle incident to an addition of more 



128 Sclectio7ts from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

than fifty guests in a family unused to sucii invasions, welcome 
though they were. 

On the floor where Margaret was, all was silent. A little later 
she knew that the adjoining room must be used as a bedroom, but 
for a while, at least, she need not fear. Again helped by the rusty 
knife-blade, the latch yielded, and the door opened out into the 
unfinished room of the wing's second story. She looked around. 
On the left side in the sloping roof lay a flat and immovable sky- 
light, through which came the last rays of a ruddy twilight. In 
front rose the ladder-like stairs leading to the garret, and beneath 
them, she noticed with a shudder, descended the stairs which opened 
into the dining-room below. What if Madam Smith should happen 
to need anything that might be up here ? What if anyone should 
remember her and come to see how she was faring ! But Margaret 
felt that in the present hurry and confusion no one would be very 
likely to think of an insignificant person like herself, and hastened 
to make the best use of her time. 

Looking back into the dark closet through which she had 
passed, she saw a space about eight feet by four, apparently cutting 
diagonally across a corner inside the big chimney. Overhead iron 
bars were laid from side to side, and around on the side walls were 
many large hooks. The stones were all soot blackened, and it did 
not require much sagacity to discover that the secret chamber was 
no secret at all, but only a smoke-house where, in their season, were 
laid and hung the year's supply of hams and bacon to be cured by 
the smoke let into the closet by means of the little iron door from 
the fire-place of the room she had left. 

Margaret decided quickly what to do, and with beating and 
adventurous heart slipped noiselessly down the stair, where she 
dropped into its staple the great iron hook of the door at its foot, 
and then as noiselessly tripped back again, and on up the steep 
second flight to the attic above. She knew that from here by 
means of a loose board under the eaves of the main house, it was 
just possible for a man to pass serpent-fashion into the large garret 
where the prisoners were confined. To this opening she hastened. 
Evidently the prisoners were by no means in a moody or despondent 
frame of mind, at least the majority of them, for the clashing of 
pewter cups and plates was mingled with laughter and snatches of song. 

Crouched by the opening Margaret could see, through the 
interstices of a pile of lumber laid across the other side, that the 



Selections from the IVrztmgs of Connecticut Women. 1 29 

prisoners were seated on planks supported by boxes around a rude 
table extemporized in the same manner. Not even to British or 
Hessian could this hospitable mansion be ungenerous, but Margaret's 
loyal heart resented the slight to the uniform she loved so well when 
she saw that the best of everything had been reserved for the ill- 
clad rebels in the great dining-room, for the prisoner officers were 
forced to be content with enormous bake-pans full of pork and beans, 
and big pewter platters piled high with corn bread, though she had 
smelled the frying of numberless slices of savory ham and dozens of 
eggs. Neither tea nor coffee was easily to be obtained in that day, 
so both captive and captor had to be content with large bowls of 
milk and pitchers of hard cider. The latter was evidently already 
taking effect upon the prisoners, for they were beginning to troll 
out gay German songs in a fine chorus, each man taking his part 
naturally and well, so that the little maiden was charmed with a 
music better than any she had ever heard. Song followed song, 
and still Margaret crouched entranced ; and listened until the last 
red rays of the twilight had faded away and the faint light of a 
silvery moon was all that came in through the front garret's dormer 
windows. 

How much longer Margaret might have remained here we do 
not know, had she not heard — apparently close by her side a sighing 
breath that was almost a groan. She turned quickly, and saw lying 
on the prisoners' garret floor, close by the lumber pile, the body of 
a man so motionless that but for the sound she might almost have 
thought him dead. He was very pale, and when he opened his eyes 
they showed large and bright, with dark hollows and cavernous 
cheeks beneath them. She looked eagerly but carefully around her. 
The sentinels were standing near the head of the stairs which led to 
the floor, and at the foot of the ladder which ascended to the roof. 

They were more than twenty feet from her, and over the singing 
and the noise they would not be likely to hear any whisper uttered 
behind the lumber pile. 

" S-s-s-t-s-s-s-t ! " Margaret's faintly whispered note of warning 
did not reach the ear for which it was intended until after two or 
three repetitions ; then the large eyes turned languidly toward the 
aperture through which her own eyes were shining. The man 
turned and would have called the attention of a comrade had not 
another and a more urgent " S-s-s-t " deterred him. He tried to 
raise his head, but was apparently too weak. 



1 30 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

" Can you hear me ? " she asked, in a low distinct whisper. 

" Yes. Who are you ? What do you wish ? " 

" I am a friend. I wish to help you. Do you not long to 
escape ? " 

" Yes, but I can't. I was wounded last autumn, and now I am 
ill, and can never be better." 

All womanly pity and sympathy was Margaret now. She had 
before wished to do something for the sake of the king's uniform. 
Now it was for the sake of the poor helpless man who wore it. 

"Can you walk ?" she whispered. 

" Only a bit at a time. But you mean to let us all free, don't you ?" 

" No, I cannot. I can only help one. I can only hide you. I 
am a prisoner myself, and am the only person here who is loyal to 
the king. It is for his sake I wish to help you." 

A faint smile of equivocal meaning flitted over the young man's 
face, but it was in the shadow, and Margaret did not see it. He 
resumed : — 

" Cannot you assist two as well as one ? I have one who will 
assist me, and who is very anxious to escape also." 

Margaret paused to consider. " Can your friend get you 
through here to where I am ? " she asked. 

" Perhaps later, but not now. I must have time to explain to him, 
and then these sentinels must get sleepy or they will see and hear." 

" Very well," replied Margaret. " Get ready, and if you can 
bring any food with you, so much the better. I will be back about 
midnight, if I can." So she drew back, slipped noiselessly down 
the two flights of stairs, unhooked the door at the stair foot and 
fled up again as lightly as a bird, then across the unfinished room 
into the smoke-house, closing its door after her, and back through 
the fire-place into her own room. Not a moment too soon was 
she. 

Part II. 

Hardly had Margaret had time to disrobe herself of her salt sack 
gown and wash the soot marks from her hands and face ere she 
heard an approaching step and then a knock at the door. She did 
not answer the first summons, but allowed it to be repeated. Then 
she broke forth in an impatient tone : — 

"What are you knocking for.? Just as if you didn't know I 
can't open the door, and it fastened on the outside." 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticnt Women. 131 

"Oh ! I knew that, of course," said a clear, boyish voice ; " but 
I didn't want to come in without permission all the same." 

"Ah ! It's you, is it, Johnny?" said Margaret, — very sweetly 
this time. "Then come in. I'm always glad to sec you." 

The implied flattery was not thrown away upon the handsome, 
manly little ten years old boy, who now entered, but he was too 
shrewd not to think that something must be wanted of him, for 
pretty Miss Margaret had never been very free with sweet tones 
and words for him, but he suspected nothing more than that she 
desired him to get some dainty for her supper, or to coax him to 
let her out to see the soldiers. The first boon he was very willing 
to grant if he could, but not the second, for he was as vehement a 
patriot as if he had numbered a score more of years, and as he and 
Margaret had already fought many a battle on account of their 
difference of opinions, he was quite of a mind that a little whole- 
some discipline in the way of confinement "would serve her right." 

" Well," he said, with a smile at once pleasant and mischievous, 
" I shouldn't wonder if you did like to see me this time, for you've 
been shut up here a good while now and have had nothing to eat 
yet. Nobody would have thought of you to-night, I dare say, if it 
hadn't been for me. I've brought you some bread and milk, and a 
slice of cold ham and a piece of pie. I couldn't get anything else, 
for every one of these fellows can eat as much as a family, and 
there was hardly a mouthful left, though we had emptied the smoke- 
house of hams and bacon, and cooked nearly everything else we had 
on hand. Mother has given orders to kill all the fowls except the 
old hens that are raising young ones, and a couple of the sheep that 
haven't any lambs, so as to have enough for a good breakfast for 
'em all round to-morrow before they start off." 

"What time do they start in the morning, Johnny ?" 

" About six o'clock. Mother's going to have breakfast ready by 
five. I heard her tell Molly. And they've all got to be up about all 
night to get it ready, for the chickens can't be caught till after 
they've got quiet on the roost, and then they've got 'em to pick and 
prepare. And it'll take a long time to get the bread made and 
baked, and it's no fool of a job to heat the big oven, either." 

Margaret heard of all these preparations with mingled feelings. 
It disgusted her to see so much pains taken to feed despicable 
rebels, but she was glad to hear that Madam Smith and her servants 
would have to be up and busy all night, for the kitchen and big 



132 Selections from the Writings of Connectuut Women. 

brick oven, being under the main house, were a good way from her, 
and the people .would not be where her motions would be likely to 
attract notice. She had made her plan and was in haste to exe- 
cute it. 

"Johnny," said she, plaintively, " I'm just as hungry as I can be, 
and it doesn't seem to me that you've brought me very much to eat. 
This pie looks so good ! I wish you could get me another piece." 

" Why, Peggy," laughed Johnny. " Since when did you get up 
such an appetite ? I thought I brought you a big lot, and I don't 
know as there is any more pie; but I'll ask old Molly. She'll let 
me have it, if there is any." 

" And Johnny," called Margaict as the boy turned toward the 
door, " don't you think you could find me a couple of hard-boiled 
eggs ? " 

"Eggs? No, indeed. There's not one left. But maybe I 
can get you some more ham if you want." 

" Yes, do, Johnny dear, I'm so hungry." 

The lad carefully locked the door behind him as he went, saying 
to himself in a puzzled sort of way as he descended the stair: 
" Well, I declare ! Being shut up must be hungry work. I never 
knew Peg to be so hungry before." 

As soon as he was gone Margaret hastily hid away the ham, 
piece of pie, and larger part of her bread, and when Johnny returned 
with some more j)ie and ham was busily engaged upon the last of 
her bread and milk. Johnny laughed, and would have staid to see 
Margaret devour the pie and ham, but that was no part of her plan. 

" I hope, Johnny," she said, "that you've remembered to bring 
a candle. It's dismal eating in the dark, and besides I'm afraid to 
be here alone in the dark all night." 

" Now, that's silly, Peggy, I didn't think it of you. What are 
you afraid of ? There are too many watchers around for there to 
be any danger and besides I don't believe there's a single candle to 
spare." 

Here Margaret began to sob. The room was too dark for 
Johnny to see that she was shamming, and he hastily ran oflF to find 
the desired candle. This gave Margaret the time to hide away her 
fresh supplies. 

Johnny did not return soon, and when he did it was without the 
candle, but with flint, steel and tinder, and what was known among 
the negroes as a "grease-tip," namely a long strip of old linen 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 133 

twisted hard and dipped into melted beef drippings until thoroughly 
soaked. Then it was placed in a long-necked bottle with one end 
of the " tip " coming two or three inches above the top and kept in 
place by a darning-needle passed through the " tip " and laid across 
the top of the bottle's neck. When the "tip" had burned down to 
the darning-needle, the latter was taken out and replaced two or 
three inches farther down. This sort of illumination was perhaps 
better than no light, but that was all that could be said in its favor. 

" Now, Peggy," said Johnny, " I had to make this myself, and 
it's not a very long one so you must be sparing of it, and I've 
brought the flint, steel and tinder so you can light the ' tip' when- 
ever you want and then put it out again. And, Margaret, mother 
says Julia and Betsy are to sleep with you to-night, so you needn't 
be afraid." 

This news was very disquieting, Julia and Betsy being the two 
very bright-witted and somewhat inquisitive elder sisters of Johnny ; 
and who knew whether they would sleep at all with all this excite- 
ment, or if they chanced to fall asleep, whether they would not 
wake again and spoil everything ? Margaret would have rebelled if 
she could, but she knew, by past experience, that the laws of the 
Medes and Persians were but sand-ropes in comparison with the 
determinations of Madam Smith, hence it became poor Margaret to 
be resigned, at least in outward seeming. But after all her fears the 
two girls were allowed to remain up to help their mother, and 
Margaret was permitted to remain in peace. That is, in as much 
peace as was consistent with an eager haste and tumultuous com- 
mingling of temerity and trepidation. 

It would not be safe for her to venture out through the smoke- 
house into the unfinished room until she was certain that no one 
was coming to her own through its barred door, which opened into 
a bedroom which, though usually unoccupied, she knew must 
to-night provide shelter for some of the strangers ; she hoped not 
the unfinished room as well, for that would cut off" her means of 
egress. It was nearly eleven o'clock before she heard the jolly, 
unctuous laughter of the negro women as they made up extra beds 
in the two adjoining bedrooms, and afterward the sound of half a 
dozen male voices as they entered the rooms for the night. 

At midnight she could still hear the noise of busy preparations 
proceeding from the wood-house and the kitchen and its ofifices. 
She waited only until the sound of heavy breathing informed her that 



134 Sc/cctions from tJie Writings of Connecticut Women. 

her next-door neighbors were attending solely to their own affairs, 
and then began her preparations. 

This time pretty young Margaret could not array herself in salt- 
sacks. Neither male nor female human nature likes to display itself 
to any unknown and possibly young and handsome member of the 
opposite sex in a disagreeable guise. Besides, as she now knew the 
way, she could the better guard herself against the soot. The gown 
she had been so careful to save from stains was not of very perish- 
able material, being a stout linen check, but it would never do to 
have soot marks upon it for Madam Smith's sharp eyes to see ; so 
the girl carefully removed the frills from neck and elbows of the 
gown, biting with her little white teeth the threads which the moon- 
light enabled her to find, turned the skirt wrong-side out, and, thus 
leaving as few points as possible for soot to adhere to, was ready to 
start on her adventurous foray. Before again donning her gown 
she had removed the heavy fire-board and opened the fire-place door 
into the smoke-house 

With cautious step, and listening between each breath, Margaret 
found her way out into the unfinished room where she had half 
feared someone might have been put to sleep. Fortunately for her, 
none but officers were accommodated in the house, and there was 
space enough for them without this. Margaret's first care was to 
fasten each bedroom door on the outside with the hooks that were 
attached to them for that purpose, and then to proceed down the 
stairs and re-fasten the door at their foot. This was an undertaking 
of danger, for there could be no certainty that something hanging in 
the wing garret, which could only be reached by this stair, might 
not be needed in some of the many preparations going on below, 
and Margaret could hardly breathe until she had fastened the door 
and fled upstairs again, this time up the garret stairs also, and thus 
arrived at the opening behind the lumber pile in the main house. 

Here all was silent save for the snoring, but when about thirty- 
five tired and well-fed men are engaged in this operation, the noise 
somewhat resembles the buzzing of a huge saw-mill, and can cover 
a multitude of lesser sounds. Margaret gazed eagerly through the 
crevices in the lumber pile to see where the sentinels were placed. 
The ladder which led to the scuttle had been removed, and the 
scuttle left open to admit light and air, so that the rays of a cloud- 
less moon poured directly down upon the faces of the two sleeping 
sentinels, who were lying across the trap-door which led to the floor 



ScIcctio7is front the Writiito^s of Connecticut Women. 135 

below, knowing that no one could get down without rousing them, 
and doubtless thinking it a sin to lose so good a chance of sleeping 
off their marching fatigue and the heavy potations of hard cider. 

Then she looked for the dark-eyed stranger. His place had 
been slightly changed, so that she did not sec him at first, but he 
was waiting for her, and by a slight motion showed his own presence 
and that another was waiting also. 

" You must crawl through here," whispered Margaret, " and be 
very careful not to knock down the boards." 

But this was the very first thing that was done, and down came 
the whole pile. With the noise up sprang the sentinels, but it was 
easily seen that only a great, tottlish pile of loose boards had been 
tumbled down by some uneasy sleeper's motions, and being strangers 
to the house no one ever dreamed I hat tiie boards concealed an open- 
ing into another attic beyond this one. Indeed the fallen boards 
concealed the opening even better in their disorder than before, and 
at the same time left a larger passage-way behind them. It was 
some time before sentinels and prisoners were all snoring again and 
every moment seemed an hour to Margaret, but at last the two 
prisoners cautiously crept forth and followed her down the steps, 
lighted by the faint rays which could penetrate here from the windows 
at the farther end of the wing. 

Arrived in the unfinished room Margaret told the two men to 
wait while she swiftly ran into her own room and there lighted the 
"grease tip" which she placed in the smoke-house. Then pointing 
to a pile of boards in one corner and showing the bars across near 
the top of the smoke-house, she told the men that they must lay two 
or three of the boards over the bars and then climb up and lie down 
upon them. 

Dismay darkened the face of the sick man. He felt sure he could 
never reach that perch, but his companion said a few words to him 
in German and then he acquiesced. Margaret now for the first time 
noticed that the second stranger wore the Hessian uniform, and at 
that sight was of half a mind to desert them both, then and there ; 
but it was too late. The Hessian quickly and noiselessly picked up 
the boards and reaching above his head slipped them over the bars. 
At the end there was left a space just wide enough for a man's body 
to pass through. Placing another board in a slanting fashion from 
the floor on one side of the width of the little smoke-house to its 
ceiling on the other side, at the end where there were no bars, he 



136 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Wo7nen. 

put his strong arm round the waist of the sick man and thus assisted 
him to climb until by grasping one of the firm iron bars he could 
partly lift himself and was partly lifted by his friend on to the boards 
where he laid down. 

In a moment more the young Hessian had swung himself up to 
a place beside him. Then Margaret hurriedly made the discarded 
salt-sacks into a rude sort of pillow and passed it up to them. Next 
she handed up the small provision she had been able to spare from 
her evening meal, promised more in the morning, restored to its 
place the board by which they had climbed, closed the smoke-house 
door behind her, unhooked the door at the stair foot, and that of the 
bed-room, and again passed through the smoke-house, latching the 
door after her. 

She did not dare to quite close the iron door into her fire-place, 
knowing that the men must have air from somewhere, and that they 
could get it only through her chimney flue, but she made the latter 
as daik as possible by replacing the heavy fire-board, and then pro- 
ceeded to array herself for bed. Her "grease-tip" was exhausted, 
but the light of June's early dawn was already turning the eastern 
sky from gray to palest gold. Margaret was tired, but far 
too excited to sleep. She felt that she had done a deed of 
loyalty to her king, for which her father would thank and praise 
her, and though by no means yet "out of the woods," she felt like 
shouting for joy. 

It was not long, hardly half an hour, before the beating of the 
morning drum, and the sounds of preparation which had not ceased 
during the night were increased a hundred fold by the bustle of the 
awakening camp in the front meadow, and the cheery sounds of 
laughter and light-hearted talk from those who having enjoyed their 
night's good rest under a friendly and hospitable roof were rousing to 
their day of forward marching. 

Not until both escort and prisoners had breakfasted was it dis- 
covered that any were missing. Margaret trembled in her room as 
she heard the words of sharp reprimand, and the imperative orders 
given to find the escaped men. She did not think any one would 
suspect her agency, for doubtless the way through her fire-place had 
been entirely forgotten, but she greatly feared that the smoke-house 
might be searched, and the two poor fellows discovered. 

Presently heavy steps ascended the stairs, and had anyone entered 
Margaret's room at that moment her face would certainly have con- 



Selections from tJie Writings of Connccticnt Women. 1 3 7 

victed her, but fortunately no one entered. She heard a man's voice 
ask, " What room is that ?" and Madam Smith's reply: — 

" That is only the room of a young friend of mine, and it has no 
door excepting one into the room where you slept last night, and it 
was bolted on your side." Then she heard a voice sounding as if its 
owner's head were in some confined place, saying, " Faugh ! what a 
smell of smoke and soot. No one in there !" And then the door 
closed and the steps moved on up the attic stairs. Here the searchers 
evidently found the passage by which the two prisoners had escaped 
from the main garret, and concluded that they must have gone down 
the stairs, and out through the dining room unseen, and were now 
doubtless hiding in some out-house or perhaps gone to the woods. 

" Strange," said one of the searchers, as he came down the stairs, 
" strange what the fellows should have wanted to escape for, when 
they knew they would all probably be exchanged soon, and either be 
sent home or be taken into active service again." 

" Perhaps active service is the very thing they're afraid of," said 
another voice, with a laugh ; " perhaps this isn't so much an escape of 
our prisoners as of desertion from the British army. We've known 
two or three such already. I wouldn't care, only that in an exchange 
every one of these rascals is worth one of our own boys ; otherwise, I 
wouldn't take the trouble to turn key on one of them. They never 
go back to fight for King George." 

" But it's rather new for officers to desert, isn't it ?" said the first 
voice. 

" Yes, but only one of these fellows was an officer, and he only 
an Irish sub-lef. The other one was a Hessian private whom we 
allowed to stay with the officers as an orderly, and he took care of 
the Irishman who was sick." 

Poor Margaret! She cried with vexation. Instead of having 
accomplished a deed worthy of her father's daughter, she had only 
helped a couple of knaves to desert from their and her king's service ! 
She could almost have killed them for her disappointment. 

W^hile she was lamenting her wasted labors she heard all the 
bustle of the troops' departure, and then, soon following the orders 
to march, there burst forth from more than a thousand tuneful, 
manly throats the grand notes of Luther's grandest hymn, " Ein 
feste Burg ist unser Gott." Long she listened, and with the sounds 
resentment died. Never before had she heard so magnificent a 
chorus, and never again did she hear one like it, as the mellow notes 



1 38 Selections from the Writings of Connectic7it Womc7i. 

rolled forth upon the still June morning air above the rhythmic beat 
of the thousands of steadily marching feet. If she had had but her 
liberty she, too, would have followed the music, as she afterward 
found that Johnny had done, for miles along their onward road. 
Johnny became a great and good man in later days, and often said 
that never in his life had his heart been so moved to its very depths 
of love and forgiveness as by the devout hymns sung by the hated 
Hessians. 

After all had gone and silence had returned to the lately crowded 
mansion, now deserted by all save its mistress, the two men in the 
smoke-house and Margaret — for all who could had followed the 
marching troops — Madam Smitii remembered Margaret, and came 
to release her. 

" You've had a good, quiet nighl, my dear," said Madam, 
brightly, " and now you must come and see if they have left any- 
thing for you and me to eat. I'm afraid it's only crumbs we can 
find. It certainly takes one army to cook for another army, to say 
nothing of requiring a third army to find the food to cook." 

So saying the brisk matron turned and went down-stairs, leaving 
Margaret to follow, which she did slowly enough, having before 
her eyes the terror of being discovered in a deed for which she need 
have little hope of sympathy from any, and mucli fear of ridicule 
from all. 

Madam Smith had managed to find something for herself and 
Margaret amid the wrecks, and while they sat at their breakfast they 
heard steps descending the stairs. Madam Smith looked up aston- 
ished, and Margaret frigiuened, for she knew too well whose foot- 
steps they must be. 

The door opened, and under the big black beams that supported 
the dining room ceiling appeared the two escaped prisoners. Mar- 
garet would have hailed an earthquake with delight, but as none came 
was forced to sit still and face them. The Irishman gave Margaret 
a very slight glance intended to be reassuring and spoke for himself 
and his comrade. 

" Madam " — his tone and manner were well bred and respectful 
— " I had long ago determined to leave the English army the first 
chance I could get. I am no Briton at heart ; I am ill and shall 
probably never be well again. If I am exchanged they will put me 
back in the service, and— and — " his voice broke and even Margaret 
was appeased as he said "and I'd like to see Ireland and my mother 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 1 39 

again before I die. This fellow here" — indicating the young Hes- 
sian — " does not speak English, so I'll speak for him too. He has 
fought against your independence most unwillingly, and now he 
hopes to be allowed to live in this country and to fight no more." 

He ceased, and good Madam Smith responded most heartily to 
both appeals. 

" Stay with us. Yes, stay here. My husband will shelter you, 
and by — and — by perhaps you can get back to Ireland. As for the 
Hessian — they're a bad set, a bad set, but perhaps they're not all 
alike. And at any rate it shall never be that any helpless creature 
has trusted me in vain. You are both quite safe now ; but where 
were you .? where did you hide ?" 

With another slight glance at Margaret the Irishman replied: — 

" You saw this morning, madam, how we escaped from the gar- 
ret. We found our way into the smoke-room, and were lying on 
some boards laid over its bars while they were looking for us. We 
feared they would look farther, but fortunately they did not." 

" Well, well, well ! You poor fellows must be hungry, I suppose ? 
Margaret, go to the kitchen, and see if you can find anything more 
to eat. And Margaret" — calling her back, "take this key, and 
bring up a bottle of Madeira. This poor, pale fellow looks as if he 
needed it." 

Margaret did not hasten much. She felt more like smashing the 
bottle over their heads than giving them its contents to drink, but 
at the same time was rather grateful to them for not implicating her 
in any way. 

The day was a long and busy one, for even when the servants re- 
turned they were too much excited to be of any use, and needed the 
siiaip eyes and tongues of their mistress and Margaret at every 
turn. 

Johnny did not reach home until nearly night-fall. When he did 
so, and had heard about the deserters, he — boy-like — could not rest 
without seeing just how their escape had been managed, and where 
they had hidden. After an examination he approached Margaret 
very quietly, but with a smile of much meaning. 

" Peggy," said he, " I know how they got out, and who hid them 
away. I found currant-pie crumbs on those boards. But you needn't 
be frightened. I won't tell." 

And he kept his word, though it cannot be denied that poor 
Margaret got many a private teasing from him. But in long after 



1 40 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

years, when the Irishman had been gathered to his farthers, and the 
Hessian had changed his hated German name for that of Robert 
Gibbs, and had married in Sharon and reared a family there ; and 
Margaret had become so reconciled to the new order of things that 
she had married a Philip Livingston who had served in the Conti- 
nental army ; — the story somehow came out — it is said that she told 
it herself — and many a good-natured laugh was had at the way in 
which, for her king's sake, she had helped his soldiers to desert. 



THE RECORD. 



BY ELLEN V. TALBOT, 



Lord, I receive from Thee, always, 

A gift of days. 
And I upon the record-book 

E'en now would look, 
And find how many days there be 
I duly render back to Thee. 

Here are writ down fair days of spring. 

All blossoming 
With joys whose rich and fragrant scent 

Is now scarce spent ; 
Ah ! Lord, these days so bright and fine. 
How fain I was to call them mine. 

I thought that Thou wouldst not request 

My summer rest ; 
Again, I could not pause and spoil 

My autumn toil. 
And here be days most sad, though brief. 
Those winter days I filled with grief. 

Too bright or restful seemed each day 

To give away. 
Or else too busy or too sad 

The days I had. 
Alas ! I search most anxiously : 
Gave I no days, at all, to Thee ? 

Sabbaths Thy holy law did claim. 

These bear Thy name ; 
Yet those I seldom rendered whole ; 

Some part I stole ; 



Selections from the Wi'itings of Coiinecticut Women. 141 

And holy days I did, likewise, 
To keep unto myself devise. 

There be some hours found here and there. 

Of thought and prayer, 
Scattered like sparkling drops of dew 

These past days through ; 
Some broken moments spent for Thee, 
Alas! how many hours for me! 

My soul did boast and never knew 

Her gifts so few. 
Oh ! Lord, these entries blot away. 

I, weeping, pray; 
And may the record henceforth be 
Of all d.-iys rendered unto Thee. 



PRISCILLA. 

BY PAULINE WESLEY (eDITII STOWe). 

[ Youth^s Covif'ii>iion,\ 

A BLUE mist lingered over the distant hills; bumblebees were 
humming a drowsy song to the clover in the meadows, and 
the morning-glories lifted their bells in the soft light of an 
early morning's sunshine. The bees and clover were talking to one 
another, in the imagination of a ciiild who walked lazily along one 
of Brookville's roadsides. 

She wore a pink sunbonnet which quite concealed her face, but 
a fluffy curl of hair struggled forth, as though unwilling to be held 
so closely by an humble gingham string. This little girl, who was 
the treasure of her aunt's heart, endured a burden which made her 
hidden face strangel)^ solemn ; it was only a basket of fresh eggs, 
the weight of which was not formidable, but it was intended for the 
great house on the hill, and in this fact was the bitterness. 

She carried the basket carefully on her arm now, but her heart 
fluttered nervously ; nature, however smiling, was not beautiful to 
Miranda Heapton's niece this morning. 

" I hate to go," she said to herself. She kicked the toes of her 
shoes against the sandy road as she walked. The timid child had 
made the same remark to Miianda, and had received full instruc- 
tions as to her words and manners before she started. 



142 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

" You must say," her aunt had advised her, " I have come 
with these eggs from Mirandy Heapton, hoping you'll find them 
nice." 

She rehearsed this little speech to the bees and the clover-blooms 
as she journeyed along. When she reached the great, many- 
windowed house, with the gay flower-beds and winding walks slop- 
ing from it, she grew still more unhappy ; she laid her hand upon 
the gate and gazed with awe toward the long veranda over which a 
honeysuckle vine clambered. 

" Mis' Reay's a very grand lady," she whispered, and then breath- 
ing a sigh, went up the walk as slowly as she could. Mrs. Reay sat 
within the parlor near one of the windows where it was cool and 
pleasant, shaded by the honeysuckle's vines. She was young and 
looked very sweet in her laced-trimmed morning gown. Her chair 
was surrounded by books which she had thrown down, and there 
was a trifle of some pretty needle-work which had been also tossed 
aside. The lady was not in a mood for reading this morning, and 
leaned back in a soft easy-chair somewhat wearily. 

There seemed not much in the world, just then, to interest Mrs. 
Reay. She gazed listlessly away over the purple-crowned hills, but 
a smile played in the depths of her eyes before she brought them 
back to the room again. They had seen the quaint figure of 
Miranda Heapton's niece, and she leaned forward with considerable 
interest when the child approached the house. 

It was only a very little girl, whose well-built form was hidden 
in the folds of a faded gingham apron, but the world seemed 
brighter to Mrs. Reay at sight of this stranger, and she was pleased 
to wonder why the child had come. Perchance her mind called up 
another little girl whose curly head now rested beneath a daisy-sown 
mound. She was almost surprised at herself when she put her hand 
out eagerly, and beckoned the child toward her. 

Priscilla stepped on the veranda with quickened pulses. This was 
more than she had counted upon — she had not expected to see the 
lady herself! But she carried her head bravely, almost proudly. 
Her aunt had said, " Go to the door," so, as the door stood open, 
she went in that way, and then through to the room where the lady 
sat. It was a long room, and to Priscilla very beautiful. She felt 
a great lump in her throat, and held the basket stiffly. The soft 
carpet seemed to stretch in endless distance at the left of her, when 
she faced Mrs. Reay. " I have come," she began in a trembling 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 143 

voice. " I have come," she repeated, slowly, and paused ; this 
would never do, she must make one more attempt. 

" I have come," she said again, and then stopped, overwhelmed 
with confusion. The fact which she stated was so evident that Mrs. 
Reay is to be excused for smiling a little. 

" From where, my dear?" she asked, pleasantly, and this ques- 
tion made the task easier. 

" From Mirandy Heapton," she answered, " with these — eggs ; 
hoping — hoping you'll find them nice." 

She ended the words with an old-time courtesy, and placed the 
basket on the floor close to the lady with a sigh of relief. It was a 
dear little face that looked at Mrs. Reay from out the sunbonnet ; 
trustful eyes were there, in which were sun and shadows, mirrored 
deeply. 

Mrs. Reay put her hand out wistfully : 
" You will stay here a while," she asked, "with me ? " 
"Are you lonesome?" the child inquired, and she answered, 
" Yes, I am very lonesome." 

She did look so certainly, in such a large room ; so Priscilla sat 
down opposite her in one of the pretty chairs while they talked, and 
she forgot to be shy, in her enjoyment of the lady's charms. 

" We might have lunch," Mrs. Reay suggested gaily, and a maid 
brought in a tempting lunch which they ate together, with the scent 
of clover and honeysuckle coming in at the window. 

It was a wonderful day for Priscilla. She drank her milk from a 
teacup that was covered with rosebuds, and there were humming l)irds 
and rosebuds which looked very real on all the saucers and plates. 
She swung her dusty shoes, and sat enthroned like a calico-dressed 
princess, with the pink sunbonnet on a chair beside her. 

Aunt Miranda was waiting for her in the cottage door when she 
reached home. Priscilla saw her standing there, stiff and gaunt, 
without a smile, Miranda rarely smiled, but she looked at Priscilla 
through the tall garden flowers on each side of the path. There 
were hollyhocks in the little garden, with marigolds and a profusion 
of stately tiger lilies. The child greeted her from between the flow- 
ers, and when the door was reached, they went into the house 
together. 

The next day Mrs. Reay called upon Miranda Heapton. She 
was received in the "best room," where there was a centre-table, and 
odd pictures on the walls. The hair-cloth chairs were placed in a 



144 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

row around the room, and Miss Heapton sat on the edge of one of 
these, as she talked. The room seemed uncomfortable to the visitor ; 
for at her home the chairs were scattered about, and there were 
silken hows on them which she called " butterflies." 

At first Miranda was pleased and flattered by Mrs. Reay's pres- 
ence, but when she learned the errand of her caller, she was very 
indignant and flashed at her in quite a startling way. 

" Your money can't buy everything," were the words she said, 
"and it can't buy Priscilla. I'll not sell Priscilla !" 

Her breath came in quick gasps and she looked like an animal 
threatened with sudden peril. Mrs. Reay, serene, invincible, re- 
garded her kindly. 

" I suppose the child's welfare might be thought of," she re- 
marked. This was true, and the flush on Miranda's faded cheek 
deepened ; a sob broke from her. 

" She's all I've got ! " she murmured. There was a quiet space 
of time when neither woman spoke; then Miranda, half-ashamed 
of her violent words, said, simply, " You see, I've had her since she 
was a baby." 

There had been few words exchanged between them, but when 
Mrs. Reay left the cottage she smiled sweetly at Miranda. 

" Perhaps you wiU think this over," she suggested. Then there 
was a rustle of soft draperies, and she was gone. 

The rest of that day was like a dream to Miranda Heapton ; she 
performed her household duties with a dreary sense of loss and 
misery in her heart. There were doubts that would come to her 
though she struggled against them, and her plain face looked more 
grim than usual. She did not feel again the fierce resentment to 
ward Mrs. Reay which had burned so strongly within her, but was 
only thinking — thinking all the time, of Priscilla. 

After an hour in her room alone, she found herself more cheer- 
ful, and that evening she called the child to her. But again the 
banished fears encircled her with ominous power when she tried to 
speak. 

Priscilla stood near her aunt's chair on the old porch, and they 
looked at each other gravely, in the fading light. 

" Priscilly," Miranda spoke with abrupt clearness, " Mis' Reay 
wants you bad; would you like to go and live with her? Say true," 
she added, sternly. 

Priscilla's eyes searched her doubtfully. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 145 

" Always ? " she asked. 

Miranda watched her anxiously. 

" Always," she repeated. 

The child looked out over the flower-garden for some moments, 
then back at her relative. 

" It's a mighty fine place," she remarked ; " there's rosebuds on 
the cups and saucers." 

A great pain struck Miranda's heart. 

" Would you like to go ?" she asked again. 

Priscilla glanced in at the window. Her own cracked mug stood 
upon the rough table in plain sight. She was making comparisons, 
and this room did look barren. 

" There's ponies there," she thought, " and pretty things," — then 
she drew close to Miranda and looked at her squarely. 

" Yes," answered she, " I think I would." 

Thus it was that the day finally dawned on which Priscilla left 
the cottage. 

Miranda stood on the porch to see her depart, and watched her 
till her eyes were too dim to see clearly. The sturdy little figure 
walking along the road looked smaller in the distance, though she 
turned and waved her hand, and the silent woman summoned one of 
her fleeting smiles, as she signalled too. The pink sunbonnet 
seemed to waver faintly in the tearful mist that covered Miranda 
Heapton's eyes, though she tried to keep it in sight till a hilltop hid 
it from view. 

For a while she stood quite still, then a low moan escaped her. 
She put her hand out toward the door, and groped for it blindly. 
To her mental vision she seemed already treading a waste of lonely 
years that stretched before. Her house was desolate, but the mem- 
ory of Priscilla's sweet child-face remained with her. 

The days flew by on magic wings in the new home, and Mrs. 
Reay was as happy as the child. Every day they went driving be- 
hind the high-stepping ponies, and took long rambles in the woods 
together. There was much to interest Priscilla. One morning 
they found a half-grown sparrow and made a home for it in the cage 
with Mrs. Reay's canary. 

This lady's light-hearted youthfulness was a novelty to Priscilla, 
and as she had never played with children, her companion seemed 
quite like a little girl. But as weeks passed there was a slight 
change in the child's face which her friend was too happy to notice. 



146 Sclcctio7is front the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

Her features wore an anxious look, and the soft brown eyes some- 
times wandered toward the hill behind which Miranda's cottage 
nestled. 

One evening, after the good-nights had been said, she startled 
Mrs. Reay by suddenly appearing in the jjarlor again. She wore 
the old sunbonnet, though it looked incongruous above a dainty 
new dress. Priscilla peered at her shyly from beneath its brim. To 
the simple child her friend had never seemed more beautiful than 
then, as she sat in the soft light of the lamp, her silk dress shimmer- 
ing in its glow. 

" Mis' Reay," said Priscilla, " I think I'm a-goin' back to Aunt 
Mirandy." 

There was a moment of silence, then Mrs. Reay answered, 
kindly, though her eyes were bright with tears, " Make your own 
choice, Priscilla ; it is for you to choose." 

The child moved herself uneasily, " I seem to miss Aunt 
Mirandy," she said, and looked at Mrs. Reay wistfully. 
The woman rose and gazed down at her, smiling. 
"To-morrow morning you shall go," she said, gently, and there 
was a cadence in her voice that was pathetic. 

The following day, after she had gone, Mrs. Reay stood by the 
window thoughtfully. She missed Priscilla even then, for there 
were many evidences of her childish presence ; almost within her 
reach, hung the gilded cage where they had tended the little spar- 
row. Presently she went over and looked into it. Her canary was 
chirping blithely, but near him, on the floor of the cage lay the poor 
sparrow — dead. She took it out and held the soft little thing caress- 
ingly, while she thought of Priscilla. 

" She did not belong here," she murmured, " it would have been 
wrong to have kept her." She loved Priscilla, but her own child 
was forevei- silent in the daisy-flecked graveyard ; she had never for- 
gotten that. 

Once more Priscilla went up the little garden-path, between the 
marigolds that nodded when she passed, between the hollyhocks and 
stately tiger-lilies. The cottage door was closed, but she pushed it 
open, and went in. Beyond another door the sun was sifted through 
the vine-wreathed windows of a room. 

Miranda sat there, the same grim Miranda — shelling peas ! To 
be sure they were scattered widely over the floor as Priscilla entered, 
but Miranda did not seem to care. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut If^omen. 147 

" Take me back for always ;" the child said, simply. " I've come 
to stay with you." 

Miranda gazed at her stupidly. 

" But the grand home," she murmured, " and all — the pretty 
things ! " 

Priscilla shook her head. 

" I don't want them ; I don't belong to them," she answered, and 
pressed closer to the woman. But yet Miranda held her back. 

" Hev you forgotten the ponies?" she asked, almost breathlessly, 
"and the — the cups and saucers?" 

Priscilla's eyes grew larger. 

" Oh, those ! " said she ; "they're mighty fine ; but, somehow — I 
was a-thinkin'of you, Aunt Mirandy." 

A blue mist lingered over the distant hills ; bumbleliees were 
humming a drowsy song to the clover in the meadows, and the 
morning-glories lifted their bells gladly in the soft light of an early 
mornino's sunshine Priscilla had come home. 



SPRINGTIME. 



BY ELIZA J. STETHENS. 



I heard a sound of music unmeasured float along, 

In breezes from the mountain, and in the brooklet's song. 

The merry laugh of childhood, the feathered warbler's note, 
United in an anthem as from one tuneful throat, 

And questioning my heart, I said. What voice like this can sing ; 
Its quickened pulses answered, It is the voice of Spring. 

Before me lay the river, its waters silver bright ; 

Around were grassy meadows, in mellow golden light ; 
The forest trees were waving their branches high in air, 

And beautiful the blossoms that clustered here and there. 
I asked whence came this beauty, pervading everything. 

And Nature sweetly answered. It is the smile of Spring. 

Below me in the valley, beside the silent mill, 

Dark evergreens were standing in Winter vesture still ; 

But when the sunlight touched them, they, too, were passing fair, 
Por e'en the smallest branches seemed hung with jewels^rare; 

And very much I wondered what such a change could bring. 
Till Fancy quaintly whispered, The gentle tears of Spring. 



1 48 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



A PRACTICAL SUGGESTION. 

BY ELLA W. ORMSBY. 

\Thc School. } 

THERE is an educational work in out-of-the-way towns need- 
ing to be done almost as much as even the maintaining of 
the common school. 

There are country children who attend school twenty-four weeks 
in a year, read from dry worn-out reading books, and have parents at 
home with minds perfectly barren except for thought about getting a 
living. These children spend the lonely, quiet evenings, which might 
be made so full of glad opportunity, in perfect idleness and apathy, 
their only pleasure being in the gratification of appetite. There is 
just one reason why these must grow into carnally minded, ignorant, 
narrow men and women. No one furnishes them with reading at 
home. 

There are books and papers which every child likes to read and 
ought above everything to read. The whole future life of people 
depends on their reading, and there is no reason why the State 
should not furnish juvenile libraries in every town. Indeed there is 
every reason why it should do so. It is not half enough to teach the 
mechanical part of reading and then leave it to chance to develop or 
not to develop a taste for it. 

Until the State gets ready to do this the old-fashioned Sunday- 
school should see its opportunity and cease to furnish distinctively 
pious books about " The history of the origin and progress of Camp 
Meetings," " Lives of the three Mrs. Judsons," and " Little Mary." 

Why not give the children bright-covered, illustrated books 
which entertain while they teach facts of the great world as well as 
morality and religion ? 

Individuals may do much in this way. Associating with a child, 
ask him if he likes to read. Perhaps it has never occurred to him that 
it would be well for him if he did. Perhaps his older acquaintances 
consider it a shiftless way of spending idle hours. 

" If you will read, you may grow up intelligent instead of stupid 
and ignorant." 

I have known that one sentence open the eyes of a boy and make 
him a student. 



Selections from the Writings of Connccticiit Women. 149 

If he would read, but has nothing fit to read, send him a paper 
adapted to his understanding. 

It is a great thing to thus change the whole future life of a child. 

There is poetry-making, and preaching and church-work for the 
benefit of those already wise which might profitably be neglected for 
this work, than which I can see no greater. 



THE DYING DAY. 



BY BERTHA IIIRSCH. 



Around me all is calm and still, 

The whole world seems at peace; 

Strange visions come and go, until 
The falling shadows cease. 

Oh, day! once beautiful and bright. 

Made perfect by the sun's clear rays, 

Thou diest for the night, 

The stars, the moon's clear silvery phase. 

Ah, though thy life wast brief, 

What wondrous things did'st bring! 

Both life and death, joy and grief, 

Some mourn thy loss, some praises sing. 



{Tke Xecord.^ 



1 50 Selections from the IVritino^s of Connecticut Women. 

A MOTHER'S DUTY IN MENTAL CHILD TRAINING. 

UY JESSICA WOLCOTT ALLEN. 

[Afothers' Nursery Guide.] 

MANY mothers who are intelligent and progressive in spirit 
lack opportunity for studying the kindergarten methods, 
and they cannot send their children to any school of this 
kind. Those who are so situated read with dismay statements 
asserting that "it takes a thorough course of training, under com- 
petent instructors, to make an acceptable kindergarten teacher," and 
" this method cannot be picked up, for it is an art and a science to 
be studied." So these mothers say, " How are my children to 
receive the advantages of these new ideas ? " 

It is hoped that this article may answer some of these question- 
ers, as the thoughts have the mother who writes it, aiming to give 
some of the fundamental ideas of Froebel's teachings, but not of 
kindergarten work. Any mother who can receive and appreciate 
the spirit of his teaching will be able to do all that is needful for 
her little ones, and she will be inspired to do better for them than 
any ordinary kindergarten teacher would do. 

The little children most generally deprived of this kind of 
instruction are, fortunately, those least in need of its advantages. 
Children in the wealthier families are usually given into the charge 
of nurse girls, whose brains might about as well be constructed out 
of sawdust, so far as their capabilities generally fit them for the 
great work entrusted to them. These children play with meaning- 
less toys, are led out to walk, and treated like so many machines 
which are run in a thoroughly orderly manner. Poor things, to 
them a kindergarten is indeed a " garden," a little paradise of Eden. 

The circumstances under which the children of the poor are 
brought up do not tend to stunt their growth, as is the case with 
those of the wealthy, but their mental and moral growth is in the 
wrong direction, hence there is a great need of better training. 

But when we look at the middle classes, who are not so generally 
favored with the kindergarten, we see that their children are quite 
differently situated. They are brought up " under the mother's 
wing," her eyes are loving and watchful, and she is an ever-willing 
and present guide. She does not weary of their thousand daily 



Selectio7ts from the Wi'itmgs of Connecticut Women. \ 5 1 

questions, nor does she refuse to " show them how" things are done. 
They are not confined to a prison called a nursery, but, being left to 
amuse themselves much of the time, they give themselves consider- 
able "manual training" and form, with an intelligent mother's aid, 
habits of observation and of independence, which are of the greatest 
value in life. 

Mothers cannot be too careful about forcing the little child's 
brain. There is much sin committed in the form of what appears to 
be harmless. A common mistake is in reading to children a good 
class of literature, but of a nature which they ought not to be 
expected to comprehend at an early age, even if, as the fond parents 
assure us, " they understand every word." One who has observed 
children can never be pleased with a precocious child. There are 
few things more saddening. The little girl Mrs. Burnett pictured 
for us in " Editha's Burglar " is a child that wrings tears from the 
very soul of a true mother and child-lover. We want sweet and 
simple little children, but not frail angels and philosophers, nor 
pigmy men and women. There are only enough exceptions to 
prove the rule, that precocious children do not develop into great 
or brilliant men and women. 

Let books alone when the children are around, and talk to them, 
giving them the "book knowledge" second-hand in your own 
simple language. Teach them the obedience of love, patience, self- 
sacrifice and its beauty, as soon as they begin to understand any- 
thing. Begin as soon as they can see things to show them whatever 
is lovely and good. Put enthusiasm into their little souls, for it is 
so much needed in this rushing, worrying, weary old world. Lay 
open before them the book of nature, and explain its pictures — for 
there are none finer — and its wonderful letterings. 

Do not be too precise with the tender creatures. Precision has 
taken all spontaneity out of far too many children, and made them 
grow up men and women with wavering minds that are blown hither 
and thither by others' opinions, because their own wills cannot act 
spontaneously. The management of some parents reminds one of 
the unmarried female who was so constitutionally opposed to dirt 
that she took up her geraniums every day and dusted off the roots. 
The heart-wail of many a thoughtful child, were it expressed, would 
be, " Let me alone for just a little, only let me alone." 

The sunshine in which a child develops is sympathy. Food and 
clothing and good training, minus an atmosphere of sympathy, may 



152 Selections from the Writings of Co7inecticut Women. 

produce good children, but they are the dissatisfied, hungry-eyed 
little ones who grow up disagreeable men and women. Especially 
when accidents happen, should sympathy be forthcoming. This 
plain justice, that is seldom denied an older person, is often withheld 
from children. 

Agassiz was pronounced " above all else a teacher," and he said : 
" If you study Nature in books, when you go out of doors you 
cannot find her." And when asked to write a text-book on zoology, 
he said : " It is not school-books we want, but students. The book 
of nature is always open, and all that I can do or say shall be to lead 
young people to study that book, and not pin their faith to any 
other." Our children are like the plants in our gardens — we cannot 
make them grow, but we can place them under influences which are 
conducive to growth, and we must ever bear in mind that each little 
life needs individual care and treatment. 

If the right seed is planted in the young brain, never mind about 
its developing early — give it room and sunshine and time. The 
little " dots" who earnestly watched the conjunction of Jupiter and 
Venus last winter, who lovingly gaze at the stars and watch the 
moon's phases — they will never cry over an astronomy lesson. Will 
the boy who cried because he couldn't pick the daisies as fast as 
they blossomed ever "hate" flowers? A five-year-old girl who 
discovers "two robins, a woodpecker, a bluebird, and an oriole" in 
the trees will not grow up to feel lonely when she can know and 
have about her such sweet companions. 

So, in simple ways, can every mother kindle youthful enthusiasm 
which will prove the foundation in later years for a truly "good 
education," which will not be "finished" at eighteen, but continued 
through life, resulting in the "knowing and the thinking mind" 
which, in a recent number of The Forum, President Dwight tells 
us is the end and purpose of " the higher education." 



Selections fro7n the Writings of Connectiait Women. 153 



THE TWO BOATS. 



BY ELLEN V. TALBOT. 



Two little boats lie side by side, 
Out on the rippling, rolling tide. 
Together dancing gay and light. 
Together breasting billows white ; 
So closely floating, scarce between 
A wave could toss its crystal sheen. 

A little space between the two, 
A broader glimpse of rolling blue, 
A little rippling of the wave, 
A little further space it gave, 
A little drifting far apart. 
And lost the nearness of the start ! 

A sudden seeing the expanse 

Of waves between that roll and dance, 

An eager straining of the oar 

To reach the nearness of before ; 

And finding that the tide is strong, 

A drifting in despair along. 

Upon the dim horizon's blue 
They vanish to each other's view ; 
A little floating on alone, 
A little listening to the moan 
The ripples make upon the prow, 
A sad forsaken feeling now. 

It matters less this parted way. 
If in the distant harbor they 
Shall drop their anchors side by side, 
Down in the quiet golden tide ; 
This lonely sailing o'er life's sea. 
Will make together sweeter be. 



154 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



A PISTOL SHOT. 

BY KATE FOOTE. 

[Cenfury Afagazittf.^ 

A GREAT window opening upon a lawn in front of a country 
house on a sweet Ma}' day, and inside the broad sill a 
mother stands holding her year-old boy carefully in her 
arms. In all her movements and looks, in all her play with him, 
there is a deep watchfulness, a certain pathos of tenderness, more 
than is usually bestowed even upon blossoms as rosy and handsome 
as this. It was the time of orioles ; and in the wide bends and 
sweeps of a great apple-tree which overshadowed and occasionally 
dropped a blossom upon them, the gay bird sat uttering now and 
then one or two rich, full notes. At every repetition of them the 
mother bent a tender glance upon the boy, in which there was not 
any lively expectancy, but a lingering, loving hope — a wistful look 
from the depths of her soul as if she wished for him some great 
good. The child paid no attention to the melodious notes, although 
he was full of fun and reached for the falling petals and laughed 
when he could not catch the shadows of the leaves ; but when the 
bird flitted from one twig to another he noticed its gay orange sides 
with an infantine approval of bright colors, and stretched out a hand 
where four dimples stood for knuckles, with the palm pink like the 
apple-blossoms themselves. So they played at bo-peep with the bird, 
and then suddenly the child became silent, looked eagerly out of the 
window, and an expectant look came upon his face. The mother 
noted it, and her own earnest expression increased tenfold, and she 
also assumed a listening attitude. There was the sound of the wind 
in the tree above them, and the squeals of a cat-bird were heard from 
a greater distance as if it were in a bad temper and were telling 
somebody disagreeable truths ; but otherwise nothing broke the 
country stillness of the air. The door behind them opened, and two 
men entered. One, the father of the boy, advanced with the 
confidence of affection ; but the mother held up her finger and said, 
"Wait — watch him." 

Both gentlemen stood so that they saw the child's face in profile. 
His little soul seemed completely absorbed in listening to some 
distant sound ; he did not hear them enter ; he paid no heed to 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 155 

them. So for a period of two or three minutes the mother stood 
amid unbroken silence ; then the child's face gradually lost its 
attentive look, he turned his head, saw his father, and broke forth 
into lively manifestations of joy with feet and hands and little 
inarticulate cries and baby smiles. The father took him, and 
another little scene began between them, and his face wore the same 
look of hope that was not expectancy and pathetic longing. 

As they played, the other gentleman watched them, after having 
greeted the mother with the air of an old friend. 

"Wait still a moment," said Mrs. Richmond as the doctor 
offered to take the baby. He paused, and a bagpipe man came 
down the drive squeaking and droning a martial tune upon his 
instrument, and a train of boys and girls followed. His pipes were 
noisy and so were the children, but the baby, held with his back 
toward the window, paid no attention to the disturbance — did not 
seem to hear it at all. 

" Doctor Laurens," said the mother, "there might be ten bag- 
pipes behind him now and he would not know it." 

" But when we came in he seemed to be absorbed in listening to 
something," said the doctor surprisedly. 

" You noticed it, as I hoped you would. What was he doing, 
doctor? Did he hear the man away off in the street ? He did not 
hear you enter." 

" No, he seemed entirely taken up with something far away." 

" He has worn that look before when I could hear nothing, 
though later I have always perceived it, and by that time he would 
stop listening. It gives me a very strange feeling — as if he could 
hear things I cannot. I don't know but he is hearing one now. 
Vet crates of china upset by his cradle or behind him would not dis- 
turb him. 

" He is going to sleep in the midst of all this confusion," said the 
doctor. 

It was true. The child's eyelids were drooping, his head was 
bending over upon his father's breast, and in five minutes more the 
long lashes lay together, and the little, even breathing showed that 
he was far over in the land of dreams. 

It was cruel to awaken him, but the doctor had come from the 
city to give him an especial examination, and his time was precious. 

" We will make his sleep a test of his hearing power," said the 
doctor. The wild noises they made around the cradle of the sleeping 



156 Selections from the Writings of Conncctictit Women. 

child would have aroused bears from their wintry naps or dor- 
mice from their six months' sleep, but nothing disturbed him. They 
carried him out into the light and sun, and the bright rays of the 
golden god tickled his eyelids open and made him sneeze. The 
doctor then applied various scientific-looking instruments to those 
little ears, small and pink like shells, though, unlike shells, no sound 
of sea or land vibrated through their convolutions. The boy, 
thoroughly awakened, raged nobly at the indignities offered him ; 
his hands were held firmly down, things were poked into his ears, 
and he was not even allowed to squirm. The doctor finally ceased, 
and the boy sat up on the floor and screamed out his indignation at 
those whom he had hitherto deemed his friends, but who had now 
basely conspired with the doctor against his peace. His mother 
could not pacify him, nor his father. The nurse was called in, and 
he accepted her overtures and was carried out to calm down. 

" By every test your little Hubert is utterly deaf," said the doc- 
tor ; " I am sorry to say so," and he held out his hand as if in apology 
to the father and then to the mother. " It is a terrible blow. We 
want our children perfect, and I know well how we would invest 
them — how mothers dream of every good for them before they are 
born." He paused a moment — he had spoken with the sympathy 
of the friend that he was — and then added, " You will watch him, I 
know, Constance," unconsciously calling her as he had known her 
when a girl, " and you must teach him ,to talk without hearing you. 
Your husband will aid you in every way, and the boy must be your 
especial care. He will learn quickly. He is the most splendid 
physical specimen I have seen in a long time — with this exception. 
He will make a noble man, in spite of this drawback." 

He again shook hands with them and went away, back to his 
busy rounds, his classes, his lectures. But he did not forget the 
baby who seemed to hear and did not. 

Ten years later — this is a story of decades — Dr. Laurens stood 
by one of the high, narrow tables in the medical college where he 
was professor. The room was clean and lofty, and through the open 
windows swept a sweet, wholesome breeze. On the wall was 
blazoned in old English text, " I will give thanks unto thee, for I am 
fearfully and wonderfully made." 

The doctor had finished the practical part of his lecture on the 
anatomy of the ear, and was ready to begin one of his pleasant talks, 



Selections from the Writings of Cotmecticut Women. 1 5 7 

which the students enjoyed especially, because then he lost a certain 
irritability of manner which he always showed when his skillful 
knife was in his hand, keenly dividing muscle or ligament. The 
young fellows said among themselves that it was because he liked 
theory better than practice. 

"Take out your note-books, gentlemen," his face becoming 
genial and mellow, and his voice sympathizing with the change. 

" I was called — " and he related his visit to the country on that 
May morning long ago, and then went on : 

" Yesterday I went to see the boy again. How he had grown 
in the interval, and what a hearty, manly fellow he was, thanks to 
his mother's fine training ! He came up and shook hands with me. 
I forgot that there was any trouble, and spoke to him as I would to 
any one. Then I saw the difference, as he answered me ; I saw the 
difficulty — the old difficulty. His language was correct, his eyes 
sparkled, his face was full of expression. His voice was absolutely 
without emphasis or expression. The words flowed along smoothly, 
clearly, but with no change to higher or lower pitch ; even and cold, 
the monotone would have made me sleepy in five minutes if he had 
been telling his career as a pirate. 

"His mother was watching us all the time, and I felt that she 
was reading my face ; I felt, too, that the boy saw a change in my 
expression, but went on as if he were used to that sort of thing and 
had learned not to heed it. 

" I regained my presence of mind, however, instantly, and 
praised Mrs. Richmond for having taught the boy so well. I spoke 
of his personal beauty, his intelligence, and she listened as parents 
do, knowing that under it all I had discovered his secret. When I 
stopped, she said, "Yes. doctor, he is supposed to be a deaf-mute, 
and yet — there is no change in him — I have watched and waited — 
and yet — ' Then she stopped so long that I got out of patience. 
She saw my impatience, and said, ' Will you examine him again ? ' 

" I did so at once. The speculum threw its light as far as it 
could into the little dark passage of the outer ear, but threw no light 
upon anything imperfect or strange. The difficulty was farther in. 
By every test I brought to bear upon the boy, he was utterly deaf. 
There was nothing for me to add to the opinion I had given ten 
years before. As I finished, his mother said abruptly, ' Let us go 
for a walk.' 



158 Selections from the Writings of Connecticiit Women. 

" The hoy was, of course, deHghted. I acquiesced ; there was an 
hour to spare hefore my train should take me back. We went out, 
Hubert calling- his dog, a splendid hound of a rather rare breed. We 
went through the garden and then began climbing one of a range of 
crooked and rocky hills that stretched along back of the house. We 
were rambling along peacefully enough when Hubert suddenly ex- 
claimed, ' Mother, mother, there is trouble — somewhere — over there 
— I am going'; and calling the dog, they both bounded up the hill, 
the dog gamboling about and only following because the boy led, 
not as if he heard something himself. We stopped a moment, but 
heard nothing, and then followed him at a slower pace. We 
scrambled on two or three minutes, then the dog pricked up his 
ears, began to bark, and rushed ahead with the eagerness of an 
animal who hears or smells his prey. A moment later we caught up 
with Hubert ; the dog was out of sight, and he was looking excited 
and flushed and also puzzled and lost. 

"'Where is it?' said he to me. ' It has gone.' I stopped to 
answer him, and then I myself heard a noise — a sharp, pained snarl 
as if some animal were in distress. 

" ' Follow the sound — and the dog,' said I, forgetting that he 
could not ; but he was quick to take the last half of my sentence, 
and we rushed on, the sounds growing more and more distinct ; but 
now Hubert followed us. We ran fast, but Fleet was faster; there 
were sounds of a struggle, with half-smothered barkings and squeal- 
ings, and we arrived at the spot just as the hound was giving the last 
shake to a young fox caught by the leg in a steel trap. Hubert 
threw himself upon the dog to save the fox if he could, but Fleet 
had been too quick, and the boy bent over the little torn heap of fur 
with his eyes full of tears and cried out, ' Fleet is cruel, mamma — 
do not let him come near you — do not pet him.' 

" Ordinarily I should have been pleased to see this feeling of kind- 
ness toward an injured thing, but now I was too much struck by the 
chain of incidents I had seen to do much but take hold of his hand 
to show my sympathy, //e had heard the cries of the tortured ani- 
mal first, t/ie7i the dog had heard — lastly I. It gave me a very 
curious feeling. I questioned him, my face probably showing some 
excitement, for he watched me very closely as I spoke. 
" ' How did you know that the fox was in trouble?' 
" He gave me a look fully as puzzled as my own could have 
been, and said, ' How did Fleet know ?' 



SelecHo7ts from the Writings of Connectiait Women. 159 

" ' By his ears,' I answered ; ' his ears told him.' 

" ' I icnew it here — and here.' He laid his hands upon his breast 
and then on his throat under the chin. 

"'Tell me what it is like. Have you always heard in this 
way?' 

" ' Yes, when I was very little, and now.' 

" ' Tell me exactly what it is like ; how does it feel ? ' I said, 
pressing him a little to see if I could not make him explain more 
fully. His face quivered, his eyes widened and burned as he looked 
at me struggling to express his meaning. I never felt so strongly be- 
fore the sensation of two souls trying to meet and yet unable to 
cross a gulf fixed between them. Then his expression fell to deep 
sadness, and he said, ' Your language is not enough — I do not know 
words to tell what I mean,' as if he were a foreigner. 

" His mother had come up and heard it all. She looked at me, 
her eyes full of tears. I let the boy's hand drop in a sort of awe 
that came over me, and she said : 

" ' My own boy — my oldest child— he has always seemed more 
a part of me than any of the others, and yet we live estranged in 
this way.' 

" I must confess there was a misty feeling about my own eyes. 
It was — there was something weird about it. That boy, shut up 
alone, living apparently in the calmness of a land disturbed by no 
voices or sounds, and yet conscious in some dim way of certain 
notes of joy or sorrow, learning to speak a language he could not 
hear, to the words of which he could give no emphasis or accent, 
and which failed to express the feelings of that far region of silence 
in which he lived. 

"'There is more here than 1 thought,' said I. 'You have 
watched him all these years ; what are your facts?' 

" 'Just the sort of thing you have now seen for the second time,' 
said she. ' He has acted at times, ever since he was a little l)aby, like 
a person who hears distant sounds. It puzzled me, because I could 
hear nothing until after he had ceased to hear it. But I noted the 
facts, and presently I observed that I always did hear something 
later, and that it was usually high notes — a band or the shriek of an 
engine — always something high and not unmusical. Yet no sound 
in the room or in the house ever penetrated his ears. Doctor, does 
it mean that some day he will hear — like other people ? ' 

"She was only asking one of those impossible questions whicli 



1 60 Selections frotn the Wriiings of Connecticut Women. 

people are always putting to our profession. I did not answer ; I 
came away. But I think of these things." 

"He ought to be thoroughly studied and then dissected," said 
one of the students. 

The proposition was received with professional coolness. 

" The trouble is," said the doctor, " that there is something which 
would be lost by his dying. Does he really hear.? There may be 
some partial life in those mysterious parts of the inner ear, which 
dimly stirs when sharp, loud sounds of pain or sorrow disturb the air. 
There may be faint quiverings and stirrings of those Corti rods, that 
we know so little about with all our dissections. But the thing goes 
beyond a mere physiological explanation. Who can tell the point 
where the soul and the body blend ? At the place where mind and 
matter meet, we clumsy fellows with lancets and scalpels take off our 
hats and stand back. I have a theory — but this is all to-day. Prob- 
ably Hubert Richmond will outlive me, but I hope some of you will 
be enough interested in him to take up the torch when it falls from 
my hands. Good-morning, gentlemen. Next Thursday, at three, 
as usual." And, gathering up his notes and instruments, the doctor 
hastily departed. 

Hubert Richmond accomplished the first two decades of his life 
in the usual manner. He grew up. His fine tall figure kept the 
promise his early physique had given. His face, with regular features, 
glowed with life and health and expression, but always back of that 
lay a calm, sweet look, like that some babies have before the ills of 
life overtake them. He was like his kind — with a difference. Some 
people noticed this at once, others saw it first when he spoke, but all 
admitted that he was not (juite like everybody else. The fine train- 
ing his mother gave him overshadowed his infirmity so much that 
few guessed his deafness as the cause of his singularity. His earnest 
eyes read the faces as well as the lips of those with whom he talked. 
He was ready with his answers sometimes before the mouth had 
shaped the words. He seemed to all appearances as well equipped 
for the struggle of life as ordinary people who live in the roar and 
noise of business, and upon whose ears fall every day the myriad 
sounds of the turmoil of life. He graduated in the scientific depart- 
ment of a university near his home, and devoted himself so closely 
to the study of astronomy that his enthusiasm marked him among his 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. i6i 

fellow-students ; and at the end of the course Professor Ba)aie, who 
had observed his energy, and who had charge of the observatory, 
asked hun to become his assistant. Hubert accepted the offer and 
remained with him four years. 

In the darkness of their tower at night, where they kept watch 
over other worlds, Hubert's lack of hearing might have been a serious 
inconvenience. But he had a resource. 

Mr. Morse did more than he knew when he invented an alphal)et 
of dots and dashes. With electric aid he carried intelligence to 
people in widely separated regions. The deaf-mutes have adopted 
that alphabet with their finger-tips, and whercverthey can touch each 
other with the hand, they carry thought over the unbridgeable, 
unwirable distance that lies between the deaf-mute and those who 
can hear. Hubert and the professor learned this telegraphy of 
touches, and words became unnecessary between them. Those long, 
fruitful midnight silences Professor Bayne came to regard with a 
little touch of awe and much pleasure. It was a sort of still-hunt, 
and they bagged many a stray planet — or at least watched them 
doing very extraordinary things. The silence between the professor 
and Hubert was like that of the vast depths into which they swung 
when at the telescope, and Hubert seemed more and more a fitting 
companion. 

At the beginning of the summer vacation, when Hubert was enter- 
ing his twenty-fifth year, the Government invited Professor Bayne 
to experiment with a set of fog-whistles which were intended to be 
put up atTennant Point near the light-house, whose light alone was not 
sufficient to pilot mariners around its stormy, ever-changing shoals. 

The professor asked Hubert to accompany him. 

" You will only want a thick coat and a change or two of clothes 
in a bag." Hubert accepted with almost boyish delight, and they 
proceeded the next day by rail to a little salt-flavored, self-respecting 
town on the seashore, whose West India trade had departed to a 
neighboring city, and where old sea-captains lived, but no new ones 
grew up. Here a strong, sloop-rigged pilot-boat met them with a 
crew and a pilot. They started late in the afternoon, expecting to 
reach the lighthouse by midnight. 

The sun set in a sharp, brilliantly clear atmosphere, with very 
little softening due to roseate mists or gorgeous clouds. 

" A strictly American sunset," said the professor. "A business 
affair, of the earth turning its back upon the sun for the purpose of 



1 62 Selections from the Writings of Connectiad Women, 

giving us coolness and shade ; no nonsense of purple mists or clouds 
of many hues, such as you would see on the hills of effete monarchies 
in the Old World, but a plain transaction of a necessary matter in a 
manner suitable for a republic." 

Hubert laughed, and brought out an abundant luncheon which he 
had the forethought to provide. 

" How fortunate that it is such a business-like affair, and therefore 
it is not sacrilege to eat supper by its light." He handed a generous 
half of his lunch to the crew, causing them to change an opinion they 
had secretly and promptly formed of him. 

" Blest if he ain't a good provider," whispered the pilot to the 
man next him. " I says to myself as soon as I saw him, here's a 
high-lookin' feller — loftier 'n the full moon." 

" You wasn't wrong there," said the other ; " he's got a mortal 
high-lookin' face, but the' ain't no east wind in it; 'tain't sour." 

" It's myrackelus he thought of anything to eat — I'll say that for 
him. Young fellers is apt to forget thegrub till it comes to eatin' time." 

The others agreed with him, but each held a politely reserved 
opinion that there was " something queer " about the young man, 
though they did not know what. The blue-black luminous darkness 
began to close around them, and Hubert cast his eyes heavenward. 

" It will be a good meteor night, professor." 

" It is the I ith of August — I remember now." 

"The sky will be full of star-dust," said Hubert, "there — and 
there ! It is hardly dark enough yet, but they are coming." 

The darkness crept on, deepened, and then began the fireworks 
of the skies. The little planet might have been sailing through an 
aerial Fourth of July. There were hundreds of falling meteors, of 
which one or two may be seen almost any night, but there were also 
globes of fire with trailing lines of sparks which slid along horizontally, 
visible for a minute at a time before they perished miserably by 
exploding or seeming to do so ; their last agonies so evident that 
the beholder felt that they must be audible, at least in Nature's ear. 

Out on the water as they were, they had a magnificent sweep of 
unbroken sky, and the men and the professor watched and looked 
and broke forth into enthusiastic exclamations. 

Hubert seemed always to know when especially brilliant ones 
were coming, and half a dozen times told them in which direction to 
look, till the professor said : 

"Can you see them so much farther than we?" 



Selections from the Writings of Coiuiccticut Women. 1 63 

" 1 hear them," said the young man. " Those little meteors are 
the only really disagreeable things in the sky. They come with a 
swift rush nearer and nearer, and then they crash, and the pieces drop, 
drop in all directions." 

The professor had been using the telegraphic dots and dashes upon 
Hul)ert's arm ; to hear this cold, smooth, monotonous voice uttering 
such things in reply through the darkness gave him a strange sensa- 
tion, and renewed an unpleasant impression he remembered having 
of Hubert at the very outset of his college career, but which he bad 
long since forgotten in the warm affection of later growth. He 
endeavored to conquer this resurrection of an old sensation, but he 
gladly saw the stiffening breeze was fast bringing them near the Point, 
whose light they had seen for an hour flashing and dying over the 
water like a terrestrial meteor. 

It was after midnight when they landed, and the pilot apologized 
for being so long. 

" It's a dreadful uncertain channel. They shift some with every 
tide, and after there's been a blow, the' ain't no livin' man as would 
know how to git in, or how to go by them shoals, till he's sounded, 
as careful as Christopher Columt)Us comin' here for the first time." 

Tennant Point was evidently a spot which needed a great deal of 
attention. 

The lighthouse-keeper met them at the wharf. Being for the 
time officers of the Government, they were to have rooms in the 
keeper's house, but were to take their meals at a little boarding-house 
near by. 

At the early breakfast the next morning, in a rough cabin whose 
side walls opened like hatches and swinging up showed a magnificent 
sweep of blue sea and sky and the buff sands of the shore, Hubert 
met a young lady, who with her father was staying at the Point. 
The father was slender and nervous, with light, thin hair, blue eyes, 
and a look of ill health. He was about forty-five, and had faded, as 
some women do, in many fine wrinkles, but with none of the strong 
lines which give character to a face and redeem it as it grows old. 
He was a lawyer and had a capacity for reading character at a glance 
often found in the profession, and he was also affected by the strong 
points of those with whom he came in contact in a way that was 
almost ultra-womanish. He was irritable in the morning from the 
state of his nerves, and was almost unbearable till noon, except by 
those who knew his weakness and pardoned it. He saw in the first 



1 64 Selections from the Writings of Connectiait Women. 

glance at Hubert that there was something strange about him, and 
in the second discovered what it was, and promptly disliked him for 
it, moved thereto by the same feeling which makes the healthy herd 
of animals shun the wounded ones, or else by the instinctive dislike 
which some parents have to the young man who may become a 
suitor to a pretty daughter. He was, however, polite naturally, and 
the limitations of the table service compelled strangers to fraternize 
over the butter-plate and to pass cups of coffee, and an acquaintance 
began through these social exigencies. 

The daughter, Helena Moore, was not in the least like her 
father. Every line of her figure, every movement, told of vigorous 
health. Her hair was the darkest brown that is not black, curling, 
and thick ; her eyes of blue-gray were soft, and so clear that in cer- 
tain positions the light could be seen shining across the eye behind 
the pupil ; the nose had a little aquiline curve which gave it 
strength ; and the skin was brown and smooth with a tinge of rose 
in the cheeks— the crowning touch of health and sweetness and 
bloom. 

" Yes, we are having an amphibious time," said the young lady 
in reply to some question of Hubert's; " I am learning to swim 
and not to mind salt water in my hair, or sand in my boots, or a 
state of feet which would make my grandmother say, ' My dear, you 
will catch your death of cold.' " 

"You are in training to become a mermaid," said Hubert. She 
smiled, and her father said in coldly polite tones, " You are here, I 
believe, on a scientific expedition ?" 

"Yes," said the .professor, the remark having been scattered 
equally over them both ; " we shall go out to-day on the steamer 
and try the horn and that siren screamer, whose sweet voice will 
be a warning to all who hear her." 

" We go for a long sail," said Miss Moore, "and I am to learn 
how to tack and reef." 

"Are you really trying to learn to manage a boat.-*" said 
Hubert. " I suppose, though, it should form part of a mermaid's 
education. Can you sing too ? " 

" Oh, yes ; I have a soprano voice — best in the high notes. I 
presume I could overtop your siren." 

" Do you know what is the matter with that young man ?"said 
Mr. Moore, a few minutes later, as they were alone on their way 
to the wharf. His voice was that of a double-edged sword, but the 



■ Selections from the Writings of Connecticut 1 J "omen. 165 

girl was used to that in the morning ; she looked surprised at the 
words, not the tone. 

" Is anything the matter ? I saw nothing wrong. He has a fine 
figure and a handsome face." 

" Certainly there is something the matter. He is as deaf as — 
this post," and he touched one of the big posts, gray and ponderous, 
with a fathom or two of rope coiled around it. " He did not hear 
a word you said. Probably he never has heard a sound since he 
was born." 

The tone now had a brutal exultation in it, as if he were glad 
to point out some grievous defect in that splendid physique that 
contrasted so with his own. 

" He had a proud look, as if he were on some higher pinnacle 
than the rest of us. He looked about half human, and his voice 
was wholly inhuman. You must have noticed that." 

" He seemed to me unusually high-bred in his looks and man- 
ners ; his voice was a little peculiar, I remember ; I am sorry he is 
so afflicted." 

Her face took a pained, sympathetic expression, which her 
father did not at all like ; he had not intended to overshoot the 
mark. He wagged his head irritably; he was obliged to let off his 
unspent temper in some way. "Come, come, there's the boat ; let's 
get aboard. The boat has been waiting a long time." 

A small steamer, a worn-out relic of the war, whose boilers the 
inspectors still insisted would not explode, had been detailed for 
the work, and the professor on the very first expedition began to 
see that the difficulties were greater than he had anticipated. Their 
object was to find out which of two or three kinds of fog-whistles 
and trumpets conveyed sounds the farthest. To this end they 
steamed out every day to greater or less distances, and at pre- 
arranged moments they were set off. 

The professor asked Mr. and Miss Moore to accompany them 
after a day or two, and they went. With the elder people the day 
was not a success. The two younger ones enjoyed it. Hubert had 
little to do but sympathize with the professor at the ill success of 
the attempt and devote himself to the guests. 

The whistles were a dead failure ; they had been before. The 
air was very still, yet not a sound could be heard. It was very hot, 
with a slight haze in the air which the sun shone through with a 
dazzling shimmer infinitely more unpleasant to the eyes than the 



1 66 Sc/ccf/ons from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

glare of an ordinary clear day. Mr. Moore retired to the cabin 
very soon ; colored spectacles, a broad-brimmed hat, and a morocco 
shade like a small awning could not protect his weak eyes. The 
conduct of the whistles seemed a most unreasonable proceeding. 
The professor tied himself into a hard knot mentally over his 
observations, and expressed it physically by sitting on a camp-stool 
on the open deck with the thermometer marking ninety in the 
shade. Miss Moore went quietly behind him and held her umbrella 
so as to overshadow him. The professor manifested an unconscious 
appreciation, by taking an easier attitude, and then a less anxious 
look. Next he became aware of the friendly mediation ; but she 
would not let him move. 

" If you are comfortable, pray sit still and let me think I am of 
some use in these scientific proceedings — or that my umbrella is." 

The gentleman gracefully yielded, and took her as well as 
Hubert into his scientific confidence. 

" Theoretically this was to have been a very easy thing," said 
he ; " the wind or the air was to bring us the sounds, and we were 
to notice how far out we had to go before we lost them. Practically 
we shall have to sit at the mouth of the siren to hear her remarks 
about shoals and sands." 

" Doesn't the wind carry sounds?" said Miss Moore. 

" Apparently not in these regions. Yesterday the wind was 
from the land toward us, and not a note did we hear of all the 
howling that you said at supper had been terrific." 

" Very unreasonable — on this coast, too, where such wild winds 
blow and where they play such pranks ! " 

" Women have imagination ; let yours pierce the distance 
between us and the shore ; tell us what it is in this invisible, imper- 
meable air that shuts off the sounds of those great whistles as if it 
were a wall." 

" Reason and previous events are not of any use in this case?" 

" Not the slightest. There are only space and the facts to go 
upon. This is a moment for a scientific imagination." 

Miss Moore looked about her with a smile, — caught Hubert's 
glance in which he had allowed much adoration to appear, trusting 
to her absorption with the professor, — colored a little at its fervor, 
and then said, " I know it is this odd little fog — this haziness. It 
breaks up sound just as ground glass breaks light. Each little 
particle of fog gets a bit of sound and holds it," 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 167 

" It must be an ear-fog," said the professor, smiling indulgently ; 
" it is scarcely visible to the eye." 

" You must put it down among your notes, or I shall be hurt 
— the latitude and longitude, and then the profound observation — 
a ground-glass atmosphere and an ear-fog — could not hear a 
sound." 

The professor did this with the utmost solemnity, and then, 
relinquishing his books and his looks, showed a capacity for 
matronizing a party of young persons, consisting of two, by plung- 
ing into a technical conversation with the captain upon the merits 
of fish as a diet. Mr. Moore did not think well of his matronly 
powers when he crept on deck an hour later and brought his 
glasses and his awning to bear upon the scetie. Hubert and 
Helena had made great progress toward friendship, and the steamer 
was yet far from land. 

The trip, in its scientific failure, was like many others that they 
had during the next week. With a quiet sea and scarcely any 
wind, they could not catch a sound even of the largest whistle that 
at other times could be heard for miles. Sometimes they could 
hear its eldritch screeching jaerfectly, when they were far to wind- 
ward and it seemed as if no sound could possibly be heard against 
such a wind as was blowing. Or they would be inshore and hear 
nothing, and on going a mile or two farther out would hear them 
perfectly. The professor in a sort of desperation took his notes 
every day, saying, " After we have had contradictory things enough, 
we shall begin to see the law that governs them." 

After a week of these acoustic inconsistencies, they started on 
a day in which everything seemed to promise success. The sky 
was clear, the sun bright and hot, a gentle breeze blew from the 
shore toward them — a " lady's wind," sailors would call it. The 
boat steamed out for two or three miles and then lay to. At the 
concerted moment every ear was pricked up, but nobody caught a 
sound ; they listened till long past the time appointed — it was 
unbelievable. But there was only the lap of little waves upon the 
steamer's quarter, and a rippling in the water a few yards off, where 
two strong currents met. 

The sailors and the captain, as much interested as the professor, 
broke out in astonished exclamations. 

" Professor, I have always noticed one thing was queer here- 
abouts," said the captain, " and that is, whenever I was beating up 



1 68 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

toward the Point in a snow-storm, — for you know that's about as 
bad as fog for sailors, — that with the wind comin' dead east 1 could 
hear the bells ringin' in Shelby ville, and that is due west. Dunno' 
but 'twas 'lectricity, but that's the fact." 

The professor listened and recorded with a look of impatient 
patience and of stern resolve that there was no fact, however small, 
but should have its chance. 

Hubert, full of sympathy, made a movement to speak now. The 
professor turned upon him a little shortly, as if he almost expected 
him to say he had heard. Hubert hesitated a little, but not from 
suspicion of the real thought in the mind of his friend. 

" I think Miss Moore " 

"Oh!" The professor's lips shaped the exclamation without any 
sound, and the ghost of a smile quivered at the corners of his mouth. 

Hubert saw the word and the look, but went bravely on. 

" Miss Moore had hold of the right idea, although she had not 
training enough in such matters to follow it out. I think the 
atmosphere must be homogeneous to convey sound. You know at 
a certain waterfall in South America the sound is heard better in 
the daytime than at night. They accounted for it by the sun-heated 
rocks of the plain sending up columns of invisible steam as they 
cooled off at night. Acoustic transparency, I should call it, is nec- 
essary to convey sound — not merely optic transparency." 

There was meat in this idea, and the professor chewed it. That 
" odd little fog " — could it have made all the trouble ? Could there 
be an acoustic fog? 

The steamer kept on her course, and presently they overhauled 
a little boat dancing gayly along over the water. It was Miss 
Moore with her father. They exchanged handkerchief-signals of 
greeting. The professor, rousing from his reverie, shouted an in- 
vitation to come on board and dine. He could not be heard, for 
the wind was rising, neither could they catch Mr. Moore's attempt 
at an answer ; but Miss Helena called in clear notes with her hand 
to her mouth, sailor fashion, a merry challenge to race with them on 
the wind, and then they sailed on. 

" Are they going farther out still in that little boat ? " said 
Hubert to the skipper, with an uneasy look at the sky. The cap- 
tain gave him a look of approval. 

" You've got a pretty good weather-eye, if you be a landsman. 
They ought to be puttin' toward shore soon. We're goin' to have a 
regular Tennant Point blow. That kind of sky means mischief." 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 169 

He pointed to the quarter from which the wind was hlowinjj;. 
Against the blue which had been so clear, small white clouds, like 
feathers from the breasts of swans, were whhling up, and the sun 
began to have a look of shining through a haze, although it was still 
bright and hot. 

" Them feathers, the sailors say, blows ahead of the storm — 
stripped off'n old Mother Carey's chickens, I guess." 

From canoe to brig, anything built to sail is full of sensitiveness 
to breath of wind or sway of wave ; it makes them the things of 
life they always seem. Hubert looked at the little craft now about 
a mile from them. The wind tugged at the sail in a warning way, 
and it responded with thrills and shakes to which the careless boat- 
man paid no attention. 

The professor still sat below in the cabin, with his brow in a 
tangle over his notes, and the steamer kept on her way. 

The captain grew more and more uneasy, and said to Hubert, 
" The professor hain't got his weather-eye so open as you. We're 
a-gettin' out to sea all the while, and that blow is comin' ; them signs 
never failed yet. We ought to go about ! It's a-brewin' over there." 

Hubert's heart sank at the thought. Leave that little sail ! He 
did not take the hint. Now the whirling feathers, white and playful, 
changed to dark, driving, snake-like wreaths ; the sun vanished, and 
opposite him in the east a long, level black cloud rose, looming up 
faster and faster. The wind came with it, the haze thickened, and 
black waves with white crests began to curl on the weather side. 

The captain spoke again : " If you don't want to say anything 
to the professor, I must. This craft can't live in no such wind as 
we'll have in ten minutes more." 

" Must we turn back ? Do you really think it worth while?" 
said Hubert desperately, trying to make him talk and so detain him. 
But the man of wind and weather had not lived all his life on a 
stormy coast to let the threads of a polite conversation entangle him. 

lie did not answer, but went abruptly to the cabin skylight 
thrown back to admit air, and bawled down, " Professor, will you 
give me orders to go about ? The's a dust gittin' up to wind'ard, 
and we don't want to be in it." 

" Certainly, certainly," replied the professor in a polite tone, and 
obviously without the slightest knowledge that there was any cause 
for uneasiness. The captain gave a grim little smile at the courteous 
tones, and muttered to Hubert, " You land-fellows don't know 



1 70 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

much about actooal sea and sky, even when you're tryin' to help 
sailors and puzzlin' your heads off about sound-meejums." 

Hubert watched with anguished eyes as the vessel turned about 
and headed for the shore. The haze was closing in fast around the 
little boat ; she was struggling gallantly on under a rag of sail, 
enough to keep her trim, and rose over the waves like a wild duck 
breasting the rollers ; but how long could she do so in the wilder 
struggle that was coming ! Could it be that the captain thought 
there was no danger except for themselves, that he turned so coolly 
and left her there ? 

The professor came up and stood by Hubert's side, holding on 
to a rope, his spectacles dimmed with the spray flying from the 
whitecaps that foamed in their lee. 

" Is that a fisher-boat ? " said he, noticing the faint white spot 
of sail yet to be seen through the thickening mist. 

"That is Mr. Moore and his daughter with an unskilled boat- 
man." 

The cold, monotonous voice was Hubert's usual tone, but he 
stepped forward as he spoke and the professor saw his face. He 
had never seen its high calm disturbed before ; now it was distorted 
with an agonized gaze that would fain penetrate that heavy mist 
and could not. 

Suddenly filled with a sense of the impending danger, the pro- 
fessor made his way to the captain over the wet deck, which at one 
moment rose like a hill so that he climbed, and the next was the 
side of a slippery descent so that he had much ado not to be carried 
into the scuppers. 

" Will that boat live through the gale ?" he panted in the ear of 
the captain. 

" She may." He cleared his throat. " I've heard tell of boats 
like her weathering a blow like this ; I never see one. They come 
ashore stove in." 

" And the people in the boat .?" 

" They come mostly as bodies, when the undcr-tow lets them 
come at all," replied the man of the sea. 

At this moment they heard Hubert's voice call in its level 
tones through the roar of the wind and the waves ; it seemed to 
pierce, and not override : 

" Professor Bayne, order the captain to go about and find that 
little boat." 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. i 7 1 

The passionless tones were effective where angry or excited ones 
would have seemed impertinent from a young man to two superior 
officers. The necessary command clove the air from the captain's 
mouth before the professor had time to even look the assent he felt. 
The skipper spit a mightv torrent of tobacco to leeward and 
chuckled : 

" I thought I should not have much trouble with him ; and the 
young fellow has had his feelin's ever since the boat hove in sight." 

The steamer with her change of course began to roll and pitch 
furiously like the old tub she was, and everybody got a thorough 
wetting ; but she made progress, though too slowly for the anxiety 
of those on board. The mist closed down, a blinding veil, and they 
could only guess where the little boat might be from the way she 
was heading when last seen. So for half an hour they cruised about, 
the frail little steamer meeting the force of the waves that shook 
her as if they would crush her, and poured hills of green water over 
her struggling bows. 

A look of doubt came over the face of the captain, reflected in 
that of the professor. The latter turned to Hubert, who had sud- 
denly taken an expression that was not joy nor yet despair. 

" Can you make out where they are, Hubert ?" 

" Will the captam believe me ? " 

The captain heard the question and cast him a scornful glance. 
" I reckon you aint a-goin' to lie about her just now." 

" I heard the voice of Miss Moore a moment ago from tiiat 
direction," and he pointed to leeward. 

" Port ! port hard — steady, now." The spokes whirled hard at 
first, as if she knew what she must face and dreaded it ; then more 
quickly as she answered the demand of her helm. The movement 
brought her fidly into the force of the sea, and she quivered and 
groaned at the stress brought upon her; l)Ut she Itore it, and in a 
moment more they sighted the boat on its side, drifting, the mast 
and sail serving to keep her alloat. Tangled in with the roi)es and 
the fragment of her jib, they saw three heads. 

'■ With a will now, men!" roared the captain, " and — somebody 
hold that youngster," he added, jumping forward himself to catch 
Hubert. 

" She'll last," he cried, as Hubert turned a white face and blazing 
eyes upon him, and gave a wrench at his captor's arms that tried 
even those weather-seasoned muscles. 



172 Selections fro7n the Writings of Conncctictit Women. 

" That girl is game. She'll be aboard in a minute ; and job 
enough, without your jumpin' over to be hauled in too." 

Hubert saw his meaning, gave up the intention, and flew among 
the men, helping coolly, but with the energy of a madman. 

A rope with a running bowline whirled from the vessel's deck 
and fell, well thrown, with its loop lying open close at the side of 
Miss Moore. She was as game as the captain prophesied ; with 
that wild sea tearing at her and breaking over her, she contrived to 
slip the rope over her head and under her arms. 

" Steady, now — slowly — no jerk at first." 

It was again Hubert's smooth, quiet tones piercing the tumult 
and usurping the captain's privilege. The latter heeded it not. The 
caution was what the men needed, no matter from whom it came, 
to avert a very real danger — that the first strong pull might do her 
some bodily injury. She rose slowly and then faster, the waves 
reaching for her and rushing after her to the moment when the 
captain caught her in his arms and set her down, shivering, dripping, 
but unhurt, on the deck. The professor unloosed the rope, and 
Hubert, who had vanished \vith lightning speed, reappeared, bearing 
all the overcoats of the party ; she was swathed in them and taken 
below. Mr. Moore and the boatman were both brought aboard in 
the same way, and then a new danger pressed upon them. 

A man came up and reported to the captain, "We are leaking 
badly, sir." 

" I s'pose so by this time. Tell 'em to pile on coal and keep 
up the fires; she must not lose her headway." 

Ten minutes more, and it was again reported, "Water's 
gainin', sir." 

There also arose a loud, thumping noise from below, as of heavy 
bodies pounding the vessel's sides. It had an ominous sound; the 
captain's face became more anxious, and he went to his cabin and 
came out again, buttoning his coat tightly across his breast. Beck- 
oning to Hubert, he drew him aside and said in a whisper, " I may 
want you in a few minutes. Follow me. Stand by to catch a 
pistol if I heave it to you, and back me up in whatever I do." 

He moved toward the companionway which led down to the 
engine-room, and stood in a quiet attitude glancing once over his 
shoulder to see if Hubert were near. They stood there several 
minutes in the steady roar of the wind and thunder of the waves, 
which yet did not drown those heavy, thumping sounds. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Wotnen. i jt, 

Then there was a burst of excited, frightened voices from the 
fire-room. The captain turned, and in two strides was half-way 
down the ladder, Hubert following closely. The firemen and 
engineer came rushing toward them. 

"We're sinking! the boats, the boats!" 

The wild energy of men running for their lives was in their 
faces, and in their panic they had lost all self-command. 

"Stop!" roared the captain. They did not heed, but pressed 
on. "Stop !" he cried once more, and they began to feel the voice 
of command, and instinctively paused, huddled around the foot of 
the ladder, but desperate, and only held for a moment by his 
tones. As they paused, the hiss of water upon fire could be heard, 
and then the knocking rose again, louder, more furious than be- 
fore. The heavy plates of iron which paved the engine-room were 
loosened from their bolts by the rocking of the vessel, and they 
clashed and ground together with every plunge the steamer gave. 
The sounds roused the men again, and in another second they 
would have swarmed over him up the ladder. 

" Not a step farther!" and this time a pistol gleamed in the 
captain's hand, the hammer lying back on its rest. 

"If I miss, the chap behind me takes him," and he handed to 

Hubert, without turning his head or averting his stern eyes, the 

other pistol, also cocked. The movement had a persuasive effect. 

"The water is comin' in to the fires," called out one of the men. 

" I know it. Get back and keep it out." 

As he spoke he gestured expressively with the shining barrel. 
" It's them plates pitchin' round. They'll break a man's legs." 
" Break 'em, then. Not another word. Back to your work." 
They went. The authority — the pistol — brought them to their 
senses, and as they turned the captain sent after them a conciliat- 
ing word to hearten them up in the desperate alternative. 

" It's our only chance ; we've no boats that would hold together 
five minutes in this sea. What's a broken leg to all our lives.?" 
It showed the sound sense that justified the captain's sternness. 
"Our only hope is to get inside the breakwater," said the cap- 
tain to Hubert as they turned to go up the ladder. 

"Yes," said Hubert, in his cold, even tones, no breath of the 
peril they had just passed through appearing. " I can hear the 
waves tearing against it on the outside. Inside it is as smooth as 
a lake." 



1 74 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

The captain looked at him a moment and half recoiled, and 
then said, "I've lost my bearin's a little in this fog. If you can 
hear, how far off are we ?" 

"I think you would call it two miles." 

The captain felt a strong disposition to withdraw from him, but 
resisted it and kept Hubert with him near the ladder in case of 
another outbreak. 

The steamer meanwhile labored heavily, but still kept her head- 
way, and they began to creep nearer the breakwater. 

At last, after endless ages, as it seemed, they gained the inside. 
Then, with a cheer, the firemen rushed on deck, some of them 
limping and badly bruised, but nobody seriously hurt ; the hatches 
were fastened down and the sails hoisted. 

Then the captain, feeling that he was safe, raised his pistol to 
let the hammer gently down. As he was doing this, Hubert 
leaned a little forward to look past him at the danger they had 
escaped. The captain was not quite careful enough in his manipu- 
lations; the hammer went suddenly down and the charge exploded. 
Hubert gave a wild scream, threw his hands to his head, and fell 
on the deck. The horrified captain knelt beside the prostrate 
figure, the professor joined him, and Miss Moore would also have 
gone forward, but was restrained by her father. 

" It's no place for a woman," said he severely. 

They tried all the usual means of restoration, but in vain, and 
the captain began to tremble a little, and raised appealing eyes 
to the professor. 

" He ain't a coward to think he's shot when he ain't. He knew 
quick as lightning what he'd got to do with the men if I failed. 
His head was close to the butt of the pistol, but not to the barrel. 
Professor, what is to be done ? " 

The poor professor could only shake his head. There was no 
sham about that set, white face with the look of agony molded 
into the features ; his heart beat very faintly, and there was a thread 
of pulse, but only a thread, and those were the only signs of life. 

When they landed, Hubert was carried to his room. During 
the night his condition changed a little. They could see that he 
began to breathe faintly, and once there was a quick, convulsive 
movement of his whole body, during which he raised his arms and 
laid his hands on his ears. The tortured look on the face remained 
as at first. 



Selections from the Writings of Coinccticut Women. 1 75 

The professor sat by him through the night, and in the dim 
twilight of early morning heard a low knock at the door. He 
opened it and saw Miss Moore in traveling-dress and hat, her eyes 
red with recent weeping, and her father in the background jealously 
watchful. 

She spoke in a low tone, still it had the wonderfully resonant, 
bell-like quality often noticeable in the voice of a soprano singer — 
a quality which will make it penetrate farther at the same pitch 
than an ordinary voice. 

" How is he now.?" 

The professor whispered the change. 

"We are going, as you see, early. I had — to — to ask about 
him before we went." 

" It would have been heartless to do any less," said the profes- 
sor, a little severely. "If he had not in some mysterious way 
heard you, or seen you, or whatever it was, we should not have 
found you until much later — too late, probably." 

She shivered a little in the raw air just as she had when they 
pulled her in from the devouring waters. 

" He must have heard my scream when the boat capsized. 
Will he live. Professor Bayne.''" 

"I do not know. We cannot tell. The doctor says it is not a 
cataleptic fit or paralysis. His mother and Doctor Laurens have 
been sent for." 

Her eyes sought his, and in the lessening twilight her wavering 
resolution drew courage from them, spectacled though they were. 

" I will not go," said she, and turning to her father, repeated 
the words, taking off her gloves as she spoke. She went down 
stairs and out to her room. Mr. Moore followed her into the 
apartment, shut the door, and faced her, white with anger. 

"You love him^you love that young fellow!" He knew that 
his anger would harden her resolution, but he could not restrain it. 

She only looked at him and repeated, " I will not go," in a tone 
that had no yielding, although there was a great weariness in it as 
if there had been a struggle — either with herself or her father. 

A WEEK later Hubert lay on a bamboo lounging-chair in the 
shadow of the lighthouse tower. His face was pale and thin, and 
below the eyes were bluish lines as if he had been ill. Helena 
Moore sat by him, and he held her hand. 



I 76 Sclectiojis fi^om the JVritings of Conneciicut Women. 

"Your voice, my darling," he was saying, "as you spoke to the 
professor in the gray of the morning, was the first sound I could 
endure. Up to that moment I had been in terrible tortures that 
I cannot express, they were so exquisite. All the sounds of life 
were pouring in upon me — a fearful multitude ;" an expression of 
pain at the memory came upon his face. " Before that I had lived 
in silence, except those strange, quivering shocks at times which 
made me say I heard. I know now it was not hearing — ^not really. 
Sometimes when I have been alone in the observatory, I have 
thought I knew what it meant when it says 'the morning stars 
sang together.'" 

Helena saw the old look begin to come on his face — the look 
her father objected to, and which had not been there of late. She 
spoke a little quickly, "Doctor Laurens has called it a 'sympa- 
thetic hearing,'" and, recalled from those recollections by her, he 
raised her hand and kissed it. 

" I am glad it was my voice you could bear first " 

"It stole into my consciousness, sweet and clear and soft. The 
noise of the world is terrible. I was certain that during those first 
awful hours I heard the roar and rush of our planet in space and 
the creaking as it turned on its axis." 

She smiled, and then there was silence. They did not seem to 
feel that dire necessity for filling every moment with "words, 
words, words !" 

The sky was a clear, remote blue ; high up in the azure floated 
two or three great white piled clouds, as if Alpine mountain-tops 
had been cut loose and were drifting leisurely about. A brisk 
wind bent the long, sparse, steel-pointed spikes of beach grass, 
and made them draw semicircles in the sand as if they longed to 
give lessons in geometry. The wind brought the sound of voices 
— Mrs. Richmond and Mr. Moore speaking together at first, 
then another, clear and loud, as if from a habit of hailing the 
mast-head. 

"They say he can hear now just like the rest of us, an' 'twas my 
careless handlin' the pistol done it." 

"Yes, captain," said Mr. Moore, "he's all right ; the doctor has 
some theory about it, I believe. But the thing which pleases me 
most is to have him just like other men. I hate a man that is differ- 
ent from other people." 

The skipper must have nodded sympathetically, for he made no 



Selections from tlie Writings of Connectictit Women. 177 

audible answer ; and the doctor who seemed to have been turning 
the leaves of a note book, said : 

"This is the note I have made on the subject. If we could 
have dissected him before the incident of the captain's pistol, I 
should have more facts to sustain me." 

" Dissect him ! " said Mrs. Richmond. 

" Yes ; there is more to be learned with a good knife " 

" Oh-h ! Ah-h ! Ugh-h ! " The three groans were given by the 
audience immediately around the doctor. He turned calmly to his 
little book. 

"Listen," said Helena, " they are talking about you." 

He turned toward the direction of the sounds as naturally as any 
one would, but his ear had not been long enough under training, 
and he involuntarily cast an imploring glance at Helena. She 
understood, and repeated the words without a sound. Her lips 
filled and made perfect whatever sounds were not fully understood 
by him. 

" I have a theory that, probably, most of the delicate ' cords of 
Corti,' as we call them, were paralyzed at his birth. This paralysis 
or pressure or whatever it may have been, that prevented the func- 
tion of the cords ordinarily in operation, tuned up others not ordi- 
narily brought into play, so as to make them respond to vibrations 
which lie far beyond the range of human beings. It is a fact that 
certain animals can hear sounds inaudible to man, and this difference 
is due to the physical mechanism of the ear. The world as it comes 
to us through the senses of sight and hearing is very circumscribed. 
No doubt there is color and there is music to which we are blind 
and deaf. This abnormal state brought Hubert into a higher sphere 
of sound by increasing the tension of some of the vibratory cords, 
and, when there was some emotion of the mind connected with it, 
carried his capacity to a most astonishing extent. When the 
pressure on these cords was relieved, when the sudden shock of this 
explosion tore up the adhesions, whatever they were, the tension 
was reduced to the ordinary state, and those cords which were before 
rigid and paralyzed began to take up and convey to the brain all 
the sounds of life. The leap of those paralyzed cords into full 
activity, letting into the silence of his brain the rush and roar of the 
myriad sounds of life, must have been, evidently was, an unspeakable 
agony. He may thank that splendid physique, that perfect physical 
health of his, that he did not have brain fever. But he was strong 



178 Selections from the Writings of Coimcctictit Women. 

enough to bear it ; with his return to the ordinary range of sound, 
he has lost his extra-human faculty of hearing and become like one 
of us " 

" And finds it interesting to hear himself discussed at three rods," 
broke in a full, rich voice. Expression had come to his tones at 
once. His words brought the whole party upon them with a burst 
of delighted exclamation. 

" At least, if I did not understand it all, I shall with a little more 
experience and teaching; " and he cast a mischievous glance at 
Helena, who did not betray him. 



SOCIETY FIBS, OR THE STORY OF A WHITE LIE. 

liY ROSE PORTER. 

" To be true is to hate every form of falsehood." — F. W. Robertson. 

[AVti/ York Obsenvr.^ 
I. 

PERHAPS there is nopleasanter town than Grecnport on the 
New England Coast. The village, nestling in along narrow 
valley flanked by wooded hills, looks down upon the sea. 
The houses on the principal street are all much alike, so far as 
.symmetrical doors and windows can make them, save Miss Ray- 
mond's. It is a pretty house inside and out, sunny and snug in 
winter, and cool and shady in summer. Its pointed roof, high 
chimneys and mullioned windows have a picturesque appearance 
though without any pretension to architectural effect. 

Now in mid-spring it was cool enough toward night-fall for a 
bright fire in the luxurious library. Two ladies sat at the study 
table. A glance defined their social position. Wealth and refine- 
ment were accentuated by every detail of their apparel. 

They were obviously relatives, by strong family likeness, yet 
with individual difference. Both were tall, fair, and essentially 
well-bred. Miss Raymond, or Miss Margaret, as I like better to 
call her, was even more than courteous. She possessed a sweet 
graciousness of manner that proclaimed a kindly heart, rich in 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 1 79 

sympathy and warm healthful affection. This quick sensibility 
shone in the clear depths of her hazel eyes, and imparted a win- 
ning charm to her words. In age she belonged to the generation 
of women, rapidly ageing now, who were in the dawn of love, youth 
and beauty, at that fateful period of our country's history we 
remember as " War time." 

The hour I introduce you to Miss Margaret she was sitting, as 
I said, by the study table, a volume of outlines open before her, 
and sheets of sketching paper, some traced with fair copies of her 
exquisite models, and others with her own scarcely less lovely 
ideals. Her companion, Maud Hoffman, a girl of eighteen, came 
near to being very beautiful. Her profile was almost Grecian, her 
eyes large and dark, and her fair hair grew in wavy abundance. 
Ordinarily Maud was without much color, but when interested or 
excited a bright glow came into her cheeks, and kindled a light in 
her eyes, and played about her mouth, which was beautiful in form 
and sweet in expression. These signs of animation were very 
apparent, as with an air of impatience, she closed the book she had 
vainly tried to read. For a moment she stood by the window, 
looking out at the sea, and then pushed a crimson covered hassock 
in front of the fire and sat down, ostensibly to watch the cheery 
blaze, which gave forth the radiant hues of deep red, blue, violet, 
yellow and weird sea greens, that ever lurk in driftwood fires. 
The firelight emphasized her unconscious grace of attitude. Her 
elbow rested on her knee, her chin supported in the hollow of her 
uplifted hand, while her long dark lashes showed delicately over 
her downcast eyes, as she pushed the hair back from her broad, 
low forehead. 

Miss Margaret's heart was full of tenderness as she earnestly 
looked at the fair young girl. She had noticed earlier in the day 
the look in Maud's tell-tale eyes that conveyed, unaware, the hint 
of some special regret, while her mouth had been more firmly set 
than its wont. 

But Miss Margaret had not appeared to observe these indica- 
tions of annoyance. Nevertheless, they determined her to speak 
of a grief of her own concerning which she had been silent for 
years. They also led her to do her part, as an older woman should, 
toward making the way easy for the girl to speak of her trouble if 
she wanted sympathy or counsel. This was less difficult from the 
fact that, unbeknown to Maud, Miss Margaret knew the secret of 



1 80 Selections from the Writhtgs of Co7inccticut Women. 

the trouble. She knew that it was due to what Maud was wont to 
lightly call " a society fib, a white lie, made justifiable by social 
usage." 

Miss Margaret had often remonstrated against the fallacy of 
the fashionable code, which maintains, that politeness, and the 
making of others feel at ease, warrants the use of statements at 
variance with truth ; but until now it had not occurred to her to 
enforce her arguments by the recital of how, in her own experience, 
the false use of three brief words had caused irretrievable and life- 
lonof sorrow. 



II. 

The light in the room was fading into twilight when Miss 
Margaret began her tale. Her voice was sweet, soft and low, yet 
tremulous, and her manner gentle and composed as she broke the 
silence saying : 

" Listen Maud, and I will tell you a story of my youth." And 
without further preface she went on : " I had known Ralph Gordon 
fully two years before the news from Fort Sumter flashed through 
our land, kindling into action thousands of brave men and timid 
women, who were strong to suffer with our sufferinp^ land. Until 
that hour we had never thought a shadow could come between us 
and the sunshine of our joy. We were such young things, so light- 
hearted. 

" The world was boundless, lor we did not know. 
And life a poem, for we had not sung." 

As she uttered these words the light in Miss Margaret's eyes 
grew soft and tender. After a brief pause she continued : " Ralph 
Gordon was among the early volunteers. He was straightway 
appointed Captain, and his regiment was speedily ordered to report 
at Baltimore. 

It was a Monday morning when they left Greenport, On the 
next day they were to start for the South. I was to meet Ralph 
— thus we planned — on Tuesday at noontime, for a farewell word 
at my grandfather's in Boston. Feeling sure of this farewell meet- 
ing we parted without a spoken word of promise — it was not 
needed, we well knew one another's heart — and yet — and yet — if 
Ralph Gordon had told me of his love — oh child what a comfort it 
would have been to me, but I missed that crowning joy, because — " 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 1 8 1 

and for a moment Miss Margaret broke down completely, as she 
sobbed out, "because of what you call a society fib." 

As Maud looked up into her Aunt's dark eyes through the mist 
in her own. Miss Margaret drew the girl close to her, and bent 
over and warmly kissed the upturned face. When she again spoke 
her voice sounded strange and far-away, but not again did she lose 
her self-control, not even when she said : "Just before Ralph bade 
me good-night, though we parted without a word of plighted troth, 
he put upon my arm a circlet of gold, starred with a gem : I have 
worn it ever since, and — I think no one will break the clasp when 
I am dead." And with a touch tender as a caress, Miss Margaret's 
finger rested on the old-fashioned keepsake, the only ornament she 
ever wore. Then she became silent for a while. 

Looking at her, Maud wondered, had she forgotten the pres- 
ent, was she living in the past, or in the future, which } 

Presently she resumed her narrative, saying : " When I reached 
Boston the streets were crowded. The air palpitated with the 
beat of drums and martial music. Flags and streamers of red, 
white and blue, floated from public buildings and private residences. 
The entire city was attuned to war. Regiments tramped up one 
street and down another, at every corner progress was impeded. 
When at last the carriage stopped, the clock on a neighboring 
church tower pointed to within five minutes of the hour Ralph 
Gordon had named as the only time he would be free to come for 
the farewell. Grandfather met me on the doorstep. He was 
hurrying away to address a militia regiment I had just seen 
entering the Common. Nevertheless he lingered to reply to my 
eager question by a cheery assurance that I had arrived in time. 
At the words my heartbeat high with a rush of thankfulness. I sped 
through the hall, up the wide staircase, to grandmother's morning- 
room. I remember every detail even now, I can recall the sound 
of old Hannibal's greeting words and his repeated ' Powerful 
glad to see de young Misses, powerful glad.' 

" The words followed me like an echo, but alas, they failed to 
waken a warning memory until too late. I had but crossed the 
threshold of my grandmother's room," Miss Margaret continued, 
" when I heard the hall door shut violently, and a second later the 
quick beat of a horse's hoofs galloping swiftly away. Instinctively I 
knew what had happened. With a wild cry I flew downstairs and 
out into the street. I was just in time to catch sight of a manly 



1 82 Selections from tJic Writings of Connecticut Women. 

figure, and then horse and rider were hidden and lost in the crowd." 
Miss Margaret's voice was mournful as a cry, and yet she was very 
calm as she added : "We never met again — but we will — oh, yes, 
I know we will — I believe in the Resurrection." 

Again there was silence in the room, only broken by the sing- 
song hum of the smouldering driftwood fire and the distant murmur 
of the sea waves. 

When at last Maud spoke, her voice trembled with emotion as 
she asked softly : " Tell me how did it all happen } " 

Margaret Raymond was not considered by her friends a demon- 
strative woman, but she kissed Maud's fair brow for the second time 
that evening as she replied : " The explanation is simple. It was my 
own fault ; during a former visit at grandfather's I had striven to 
overcome Hannibal's righteous repugnance against telling what I 
assured him was only ' a harmless white lie.' At last I persuaded 
him to accept the formula 'not at home' as a polite manner of 
refusing admittance to morning callers. But while Hannibal had 
yielded in obedience to my wish, he never reported the false use of 
the words without adding : ' 'Pears like de truth is de better way.' 
How much better, child, I learned that day ! — Hannibal had never 
seen Ralph Gordon, he was a morning caller — the old serving-man 
thought he was doing me a service, when, according to my false 
training, he said : ' Not at home,' even though a few moments 
before, he had seen me enter the house. 

"Ralph, of course, never thought that I, Margaret Raymond, his 
ideal maiden, would teach a servant to tell a lie, to save myself from 
interruption, and because it was considered a less formal refusal than 
a chilling 'Beg to be excused.' Hence Ralph understood Hanni- 
bal's words to mean that I had not arrived. He could not wait ; as 
it was, he only reached the station in time to spring from his horse 
on to the train already moving slowly out of the depot." 

For a moment Miss Margaret seemed to forget Maud's presence, 
and as though thinking aloud, she murmured, " I wish the jewel in 
my bracelet would not gleam as I tell the story ; it shines like a tear 
never wiped away." This forgetfulness of Maud was but brief for 
Miss Margaret spoke again calm and low : " Time sped on," she said, 
" we were within a week of Ralph's furlough. I counted the hours, 
the minutes. The week was prefaced by a September Sabbath, a 
day beautiful as a dream. I remember it all so well ; the air was 
keen and sunny ; the sea blue and rippling ; the wooded hillsides 



Selections from ihe Writings of Connectic7it Women. 183 

touched with a hint of autumn glory, I could not tell why, but Ralph 
seemed so near that morning. I felt his dear presence as one feels 
the nearness of a friend expected the next hour. Was he near ? Do 
earthly miles separate hearts that love ? " 

Not waiting for a reply, Miss Margaret continued: "A blank 
comes now, it was all beyond wortls. Afterwards, long afterwards, 
I heard the detailed history of that day on Maryland Heights. Years 
followed, the war ended, they said peace reigned. But there was no 
peace in my heart. I was so slow in learning submission. I seemed 
to spell the lesson backward ; I seemed to forget that I never could 
learn it till faith and patience met, and there is only one place where 
they can meet, and that is within the shadow of the Cross. When 
I sought that refuge I found life held something better even than 
happiness — dear and beautiful as happiness is — and since then, it has 
been blessedness. 

" Later there came a stranger to Greenport. He was a soldier, 
the empty coat-sleeve told that. He asked for me, and he was 
pointed to my home. 'I have a message' he said: 'He bade 
me,' — and I knew the stranger meant by he, my Ralph — ' bring this 
— I found it in the bullet-pierced pocket of his coat ; it rested on his 
heart.' And the stranger handed me — oh — it was nothing, just a 
powder-blackened torn thing, a picture of myself. But — it had rested 
on Ralph Gordon's heart." 

HI. 

Twilight had deepened while Miss Margaret told her story. She 
had hardly uttered the last words when the library door opened, the 
maid entered with candles and announced, " Mr. Foster," and life's 
everydayness asserted itself. It is wont to be thus, even amid the 
hours of deepest sorrow some voice calls us back into the daily 
routine of life. Some light must be lit — some fire stirred. Well, — 
it is better so. 

But, before the \nsitor had time to enter Miss Margaret softly 
whispered : " Child, remember, be tnic, true in word, true in deed, 
true in thought." 

And then, after a cordial greetingto James Foster Miss Margaret 
left the room, and he advanced toward Maud, who met him with 
outstretched hands, bowed head, tear dimmed eyes, and earnest voice, 
saying: "James forgive me, it was false. I told you a society fib." 



1 84 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut JVomefi. 

What followed Miss Margaret did not hear. But later in the 
evening as she stood by the window in her dressing-room, looking 
out at the sea sparkling in the silvery moonlight, and up into the 
calm blue of the star-lit sky, a quick, light step crossed the room, 
warm arms were impulsively thrown around her, and Maud with a 
face shining with a new light and joy exclaimed : " I am so happy, 
but I cannot bear to be so glad when I think of you, dear." 

If there were tears in Miss Margaret's eyes she smiled too, as she 
listened to Maud's story, for Margaret Raymond had long ago 
learned that Christ's love can make all life one great duty, and that 
however dark its woof, because of that divine love, it is shot through 
a web of brightness. 



A WINTER SONG. 



BY JESSICA WOI.COTT ALLEN. 

\^Bosto>i Commonwealth, 1889.] 

When Winter treads his weary round 

And cold congeals the air — 
When snow lies deep upon the ground 

And woods wave bleak and bare — 

The winds in angry warfare meet, 

And clouds obscure the sun; 
Missing, too, their vital heat 

The streams forget to run. 

Say, is it best, my dearest friend, 

Of heart so true and pure. 
Cowering beneath the blast to bend. 

Or manfully endure ? 

Oh, through the Winter's dreariest gloom 

A cheerful trust maintain, 
And heaven will smile and woodlands bloom 

And Spring come back again. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 185 



THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 

BY CATHERINE CARRINGTON. 

[Athntic Monthly.^ 

MISS LYDIA BENNETT was one of the most prominent 
and influential citizens of the little town of Greenville. 
There was not a man in the place who was possessed of 
such decided and energetic character, such positive opinions, or 
such a firm and unyielding will ; and the supremacy she exercised 
in social affairs was only that accorded to all strong and resolute 
natures. She had experienced religion in her youth by an indis- 
putably correct process, and had at once joined the church, of 
which she became, by force of character, the leading spirit. Her 
orthodoxy was unbounded, her knowledge of theology and dogma 
precise and unquestionable, and her learning in the Scriptures such 
as is gained only by life-long and diligent study. In the narrow 
but intense life of a retired New England village, where the church 
is the centre of social activity, religious thought has great promi- 
nence ; and Miss Lydia Bennett's religion was the mainspring of 
her character, the ruling power of her life. 

The most vital and essential part of this religion, that which 
lay nearest her heart and awoke her strongest feeling, was a bitter 
and vindictive hatred of one of her neighbors, — a man who was, 
nominally at least, a brother Christian, and who had never injured 
her personally by word or deed. The last fact shielded her from 
all misgiving. She might have doubted the sanctity of a resent- 
ment awakened by her private wrongs, but she gloried in a right- 
eous indignation against an enemy of God's church. 

The object of all this animosity was the Rev. Joseph Eliot, a 
retired clergyman, who for many years had made his home in 
Greenville. He had come to the people as their pastor long ago, 
and Miss Lydia, and her sister, Miss Phebe Bennett, had been 
among his warmest supporters. His life was beneficent and his 
power increasing, when his bark struck that worst of snags in the 
current of a clergyman's life, a quarrel in the choir. It originated 
in a trifle, and therefore soon assumed serious proportions. The 
members of the church took sides in the matter, naturally dividing 
according to their social sympathy and family ties, rather than with 



1 86 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

reference to the merits of the case, and in the inevitable gravitating 
of opinions it chanced that the Rev. Joseph Eliot found himself 
viewing the matter in another light from that in which it was 
regarded by Miss Lydia Bennett, and he even refused to carry 
into execution some arbitrary measures adopted by the church at 
Miss Bennett's instigation. She took the liveliest personal interest 
in the matter; and, infuriated by Mr. Eliot's undaunted opposition, 
determined to make an example of this minister who dared to 
thwart her own will and that of an independent church. 

It was easy to excite public opinion against him, aided by those 
who feed eagerly upon the faults of the clergy ; and by instituting 
diligent inquiry in every place where he had hitherto lived she had 
soon in lively circulation a fine crop of evil reports. Mr. Eliot, 
pursued with relentless fury and deserted by all save a few faithful 
friends, was compelled to ask for a dismission ; when, instead of 
flying before his enemies, he decided to remain in the place. His 
health, always delicate, had been so undermined by the recent 
excitement that he could not undertake another charge ; and per- 
haps to a spirited man it seemed cowardly to run away from 
slander, and a better course to stay and live it down. 

And now Miss Lydia Bennett began against this man a system 
of persecution which, if related in detail, would be scouted as 
incredible. His actions were watched, his words misrepresented, 
and his motives assailed, until his best deeds were made to tell 
against him ; and in spite of his pure and blameless life he was 
shunned with suspicion and dislike by a large share of the com- 
munity. It seemed to her that his continued presence among 
them was a deliberate insult to herself and to the church he had 
defied ; and that in driving him out she was obeying God, as the 
Jews obeyed him in exterminating the inhabitants of the land of 
Canaan. She led her Sunday-school class through rivers of blood 
and scenes of slaughter, having Joseph Eliot ever before her mind 
as the modern representative of the enemies of Israel in whose 
destruction she gloried ; and she loved the savage denunciations 
of the Psalmist against the foes of God, being confirmed in the 
righteousness of feelings that were so exactly voiced by words of 
holy writ. 

It was undeniable that Mr. Eliot's presence was often a source 
of serious annoyance to the pious folk of Greenville. When a 
new minister came to the place, and, finding this reverend brother 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 187 

in his congregation, naturally warmed to him with fraternal affec- 
tion, and extended the ordinary clerical courtesies, the state of 
affairs was cautiously explained to him and his own line of conduct 
plainly indicated. Some men of spirit refused to alter their course 
of action because of a ridiculous church quarrel that they had no 
share in, or a few old slanders falling to pieces with decay; others 
were timid, politic, or prejudiced, and trimmed their sails to accom- 
modate public feeling; but no minister ever stayed long among 
them. Some of the "world's people" shook their heads, and said 
"they'd never have a revival or a settled minister till all those 
that had a hand in dismissin' Mr. Eliot was dead." Others laughed 
when the subject of personal religion was urged upon them, and 
retorted that "they'd rather stay outside, where there wa'n't so 
much quarrelin'," or that "a church that was too good for Mr. 
Eliot was too good for them." The faithful souls who prayed for 
the prosperity of Zion seemed to pray in vain, and few recruits 
were gathered in to fill the vacant places. 

As the years passed on, however, public opinion gradually 
underwent a change. A new generation was growing up, outside 
the church ; strangers moved in, who cared nothing for old grudges, 
and recognized the clear radiance of Mr. Eliot's Christian light. 
Old enmities died out, and the number of his friends increased. 
But Miss Lydia Bennett's consistent hatred never faltered, being 
cherished even more tenderly as others grew careless or lukewarm. 
The magnanimity that lifted him above her worst attacks and the 
calm forbearance that never sought revenge she interpreted as a 
hardened indifference ; while his happiness and prosperity in his 
private life reminded her of the "wicked in great power, and 
spreading himself like a green bay-tree." It was only when, like 
David, she went into the sanctuary and considered the slippery 
places upon which he stood that she was able to endure the 
spectacle. 

But time goes on, and everything is short that it can measure. 
Joseph Eliot's life had been a long one, as men reckon life ; his 
threescore years and ten had passed ; but the end came. A neigh- 
bor going by Miss Bennett's door, one morning, paused to tell the 
news that Mr. Eliot was very sick. Her curiosity was awakened ; 
she inquired the particulars of his illness, and after her neighbor 
departed wondered with her sister if they had sent for any of the 
children. The next morning, as she was washing dishes in the 



1 88 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

kitchen, a stroke of the church bell came upon her with a sudden 
shock, and her heart beat a little faster as she turned to meet her 
sister who was coming in from the post-office. 

" It is Mr. Eliot," said Miss Phebe. " He died last night." 

Miss Lydia wiped her hands upon her apron and sat down by 
the window, unnerved by the news. The door was suddenly shut 
in the face of her active and living hatred, and as it turned away, 
baffled and unsatisfied, she saw its face. There are delicate spir- 
itual premonitions and perceptions that are beyond analysis ; and 
by some intuition her soul discerned upon its far horizon the 
shadow of a fear — a dim foreboding of something as yet unknown 
and far away — that was drawing near to alarm her. 

A neighbor dropped in ; she listened to the talk that always 
follows death, — speculations as to the funeral and the future plans 
of the survivors. She took part in the conversation with the sur- 
face current of her thought, but there was a deeper consciousness 
that was silent, uneasy, and almost afraid. She went about her 
duties softly, and alone at night, when she put out her candle, the 
darkness was like a presence in the room. She lay awake a long 
time, her eyes wide open, her mind unnaturally active, and her 
memory busy with the past, dragging forth from the dark corners 
of forgetfulness the scenes and incidents of years gone by, until 
fancy began to mingle with recollection, her consciousness grew 
misty, and she passed to the more vivid and intense life of dreams. 

When she awoke in the morning her presentiment had drawn 
nearer, and though she turned away and closed her mental vision 
it was too late ; she knew what it was. It was a shadowy misgiv- 
ing of herself, — concerning what, she would not think. 

Her sister spoke of the coming funeral. " I suppose we ought 
to go, for the speech of people," she said. " There'll be folks from 
out of town, and they'll think it's queer if we are not there, living 
so near the church." 

Miss Lydia shrank from going, but she would not admit to 
herself that she was afraid or ashamed to be present. She found 
her doubt there awaiting her, and as she grew defiant it grew more 
bold. She was swayed by the influences of the place and hour; 
the lifeless form of the one she had so relentlessly pursued seemed 
silently to reproach her, and her doubt spoke plainly : — 

"Havel been just in my past judgment of this man? Is it 
not possible I have been mistaken.?" 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 1 89 

She glanced uneasily at the weeping relatives, and saw herself 
in the unwonted light of another's estimation. She had always 
been a law unto herself, careless of all other opinion ; but now she 
saw how she must appear to this grief stricken widow, against 
whom she had never been able to bring a worse accusation than 
that she "sympathized with her husband." She felt the altered 
public mood, and that there were some present who looked at her 
with curiosity or condemnation. 

But Miss Lydia's spirit was not one to cower long in self-re- 
proach. She turned aside these feelings with confident self-justi- 
fication, and stared boldly about the assembled congregation, 
recalling all the just cause she had had for her enmity and sneering 
inwardly at the tribute paid the dead. Her mind turned with 
relief from the subject when all was over, and gladly she hurried 
home. 

" Well," said her sister placidly, as they were taking off their 
bonnets, " it does seem strange how different you feel when folks 
are gone. We are imperfect creatures, and I am afraid in some 
things we was most too hard on Mr. Eliot." 

While Miss Phebe Bennett's shallow experience thus found 
complete and calm expression, it stirred painful depths in Miss 
Lydia's soul to hear her own misgiving shaped in words ; and her 
doubt grew so persistent that at last she turned and faced it. 

"What if I did!" she retorted, "I'm not perfect; but I have 
done, right along, what I believed to be my duty. You can't think 
so hard of folks when they are gone." 

This was a dangerous admission to make, but in the line of her 
convictions she was honest, and she would not take it back. Her 
inward accuser at once took up the new position she had accorded 
as a vantage-ground for renewed demands, while she began to feel 
a gentle but gradually increasing spiritual pressure, a constraint 
upon her inclination, a vague impulse of duty, a whispered " Ought 
I?" It was as if there stood beside her someone waiting, who 
though often ignored and forgotten, was. always there, and now 
and then touched her, asking to be heard, while whispering voices 
filled her ears, and her trouble grew upon her, until she gradually 
became conscious of a distinct suggestion that if she had done a 
wrong to Joseph Eliot it had been deep and terrible, — a wrong 
that demanded all the expiation in her power, and an acknowledg- 
ment of error as public as had been her accusations, even to making 



1 90 Selections from the Writings of Connectiait Women. 

a formal confession of her sin before the church and people of her 
native town. 

She prepared herself by earnest prayer for guidance, and receiv- 
ing the suggestion freely endeavored to look at the matter calmly 
by the light of reason and judgment. A careful self-examination 
only confirmed the decision she had originally made, — that the 
demand was monstrous and unreasonable, and that the voice 
within her was not the voice of God. The shock of Mr. Eliot's 
death had awakened an over-sensitive conscienee ; and in her mor- 
bid brooding over the matter she had mistaken the unhealthy 
action of a mind unnaturally excited for the promptings of duty. 
Whatever mistakes she had made in the past, in the main purpose 
of her life she had sought the glory of God and the honor of his 
name ; and to make a confession like the one suggested would be 
essentially insincere, would do herself a worse wrong than she had 
done to Joseph Eliot, and inflict grave injury upon the cause of 
Christ, of which she had so long been the leading representative. 
Her intellectual conviction was without the shadow of misgiving; 
and, with a longing to be delivered from her mental oppression 
she laid her arms upon the table by which she sat and bowed her 
head upon them, as her custom was, in prayer ; but her soul was 
silent. She could not pray. After a while she raised her head 
and took her Bible. 

" Perhaps he chooses to speak to me by his word," she thought, 
as she turned the leaves of the book looking for some appropriate 
message. Her attention was first arrested by these verses : — 

" TJiou hast neither part nor lot in this matter; for thy heart is 
not right in the sight of God. Repent, therefore, of this thy wicked- 
ness, and pray God if perhaps the thought of thine heart may be 
forgiven thee. For I perceive that thou art in the gall of bitterness 
and in the bond of iniqjiity." 

" Peter's words to Simon Magus," she thought, maintaining her 
calmness by an effort. " In my excited state of feeling they natur- 
ally seem to have undue significance." 

She turned back a few leaves, and looked again : — 

" Why hath Satan filled thine heart to lie to the Holy Ghost? 

. . Thou hast not lied unto men, but unto God." 

She closed her Bible and resolutely laid it from her. 

" My nerves are overwrought," she said. " I must divert my 
mind by natural and healthy interests." 



Selections from the VVritiiigs of Conncctictit Women. 191 

It was just at twilight ; she went out and proposed to her sister 
that they should spend the evening at a neighbor's house, and 
during the days that followed she went much into active business 
and society. But she found it impossible to shake off the oppres- 
sion that was upon her spirit ; the same suggestion of duty haunted 
her; and reason, judgment, and intellectual conviction availed no 
more against it than a sponge avails to wipe out a shadow. She 
grew reluctant to read her Bible ; there were verses there that she 
did not like to see ; and she at last gave up her daily reading, say- 
ing that for the present it had perhaps ceased to be profitable. 
But she could not escape the living word written in her memory, 
which seemed quickened to intense activity. Her prayers were 
sometimes constrained and formal ; and sometimes she cast herself 
upon the Lord with strong cries for deliverance. 

" Why dost thou leave me to such doubt and disquietude?" 
she pleaded. " I have sought my duty carefully with tears. Leave 
me not in darkness ; let thy light shine." 

"If therefore, thine eye he single, thy whole body shall be full of 
light," suggested memory. 

" Lord, help me !" she cried. "Deliver me from this horrible 
pit and miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and my lips shall 
praise thee." 

" Why eall ye me Lord, Lord, and do not the things 7i'hieh I say ? " 
was her answer. 

She went over the ground again and again, calling common 
sense and reason to her aid. She told herself she was the victim 
of a strange delusion, and that by patient waiting she would yet 
recover mental health. But her facility in the Scriptures met her at 
every turn, and some text arose and tripped up every step she took. 

" It is monstrous, impossible," she urged. " I could not do it if 
I would." 

"Ifye have faith as a grain of mnstard-seed, ye shall say to this 
mountain, Remove hence to yonder place, and it shall remove ; and 
nothing shall be impossible to you. " 

" Oh, for patience ! " she cried. " I will withdraw my mind from 
this subject, and it will yet leave me." 

" Grieve not the Holy Spirit of God, iv hereby ye are sealed to the 
day of rcdemptio7i." 

" It is not the Spirit of God," she answered. " My faith is tried, 
like that of Job, and Satan is allowed " She went no further. 



192 Selections from the Writings of Connectictit Women. 

" Whoso blasphcmcth against the Holy Ghost, it shall not be for- 
given him, neither in this world nor in the tvorld to come. 
Because they said. He hath an unclean spirit." 

Miss Lydia's mental trouble began to wear upon her health. 
Ever)rone was noticing her worn and haggard face ; and a visit of a 
few weeks among her relatives gave her but temporary relief. 
Spring came, with its warm, soft air, and its depressing languor. 
She was an old woman, and now she began to feel about her some 
vague premonition of a change. Grave symptoms of disease hered- 
itary in the family declared themselves. One by one she gave up 
her active duties, and sat in her cushioned chair. The old family 
doctor was called in ; he gave her illness a Latin name, mixed some 
medicine in a teacup, promised a speedy recovery, and went away 
and left her with her trouble. Her mind was held relentlessly upon 
the subject from which her whole being shrank ; and though as 
physical strength failed her she had less power of resistance, still her 
will was fixed and resolute as ever that she would not yield. 

Upon his second visit the old doctor found his patient confined 
to her bed ; friends shook their heads sadly over this downward step, 
but Miss Lydia felt an intense relief that now, at least, a physical 
impossibility stood in the way of the suggestion that ever haunted 
her. 

One evening as she lay aloile in the twilight, listening to the soft 
voices of the summer evening, there gradually closed about her the 
conviction that for her the end of life was near. Death seemed to 
approach and forewarn her, and her soul recognized his face. What 
if, after all, this had been the voice of God within her that she had 
refused and disobeyed ? What if her eternal destiny were indeed 
imperiled, and now it was too late. The things of this life shriveled 
to nothingness as she drew near the eternal verities. Outside the 
window, just across the street, the church-bell began to ring ; and 
Miss Lydia grew faint with fear, as her inward conflict began anew. 
Was it, then, too late? The church prayer meeting was assembling, 
close at hand. A remnant of physical strength was still her own. 
Might she not even now obey the impulse within her, and be at 
peace ? She felt her spirit wooed by strong persuasion, and the 
v^oices about her were melting with entreaty. 

She turned her face upon the pillow ; the slow and painful tears 
forced themselves through the unusued channels, and she gave up. 
The feeble notes of a wailing hymn rose and fell upon the air; the 



Selections from the Writings of Connectiait Women. 193 

exercises had begun. Ten minutes later Deacon Tryon was address- 
ing the meeting. The candles flared in the dim twilight of the echo- 
ing room, and the little handful of brethren sat drowsily listening to 
the same old story. Deacon Tryon felt himself to be a great sinner. 
He was conscious he had not walked worthily before them, and 
he asked their prayers 

He paused ; his hearers roused themselves, and turned to follow 
the direction of his startled glance. 

Miss Lydia Bennett stood in the doorway, her clothes flung 
hastily about her, and her face like one struck with death. She 
came slowly up the aisle, and when she feebly spoke all held their 
breath to listen. 

" I have sinned against Heaven," she began, " I am verily 
guilty concerning my brother. I have slandered a good man and 
done him wrong. I have resisted the Spirit when he moved me to 
confess my sin. I am not worthy " 

Her voice faltered, and she wavered and seemed about to fall. 
A young man sprang from the back seat and caught her in his arms; 
and the meeting broke up in confusion as they carried her home 
again. 

Miss Lydia Bennett's strange appearance at the Thursday even- 
ing meeting was the talk of Greenville for weeks after. The public 
verdict was unanimous that she " must have been out of her head 
with the fever"; and if there were some who did not wonder at the 
form of her delirium they held their peace. 

" She never spoke much after it," Miss Phebc used to say. 
"The doctor said it hastened her end, of course. Siie just lay quiet, 
with her eyes shut, seeming kind of hap|)v and smiling to herself; 
but she wouldn't take medicine, nor seem to notice anything. Once 
I asked her if she felt she was prepared, and she whispered some- 
thing that sounded like ' So happy.' The night she died I was sit- 
tin' by the bed, and she opened her eyes, and says she, quite clear, 
' Good-by, Phebe. God is here — right liere ;' and then she never 
spoke again, and before morning she was gone." 



194 Selections from the Writings of Connectictit Women. 



THE DIFFERENCE. 



BY ELLEN V. TALBOT. 

{Advocate and Guardian. '\ 

Two babes were born in the self-same town 

On the very same bright day ; 
They laughed and cried in their mother's arms 

In the ver)' self-same way. 
And both were as pure and as innocent 

As falling flakes of snow. 
But one of them lived in the terraced house. 

And one in the street below. 

Two children played in the self-same town, 

And the children both were fair, 
But one had her curls brushed smooth and round, 

The other had tangled hair. 
Both of the children grew apace. 

As all our children grow. 
But one of them lived in the terraced house. 

And one in the street below. 

Two maidens wrought in the self-same town, 

And one was wedded and loved, 
The other saw through the curtain's part. 

The world where her sister moved. 
And one was smiling, a happy bride. 

The other knew care and woe. 
For one of them lived in the terraced house, • 

And one in the street below. 

Two women lay dead in the self-same town, 

And one had tender care. 
The other was left to die alone. 

On her pallet so thin and bare. 
One had many to mourn her loss. 

For the other few tears would flow, 
For one had lived in the terraced house, 

And one in the street below. 

If Jesus, who died for rich and poor, 

In wonderful, holy love, 
Took both of the sisters in His arms, 

And carried them up above ; 
Then all the difference vanished at last. 

For in heaven none would know 
Which of them lived in the terraced house, 

And which in the street below. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 195 



THREE DAYS OF TERROR. 

BY ELLEN LARNED. 

{^Harper's Magazine, 1S69.] 

ON the loth of July, 1863, my mother and myself arrived 
in the city of New York. We had set out on a grand 
tour of visitation. After vegetating year after year in a 
New England village, we had sallied forth in genuine country 
fashion to hunt up our kinsfolk in various parts of the land. We 
were in no hurry. We had the whole summer before us. We 
wished to avoid crowds, noise, and excitement, to stop whenever 
we pleased, as long as we chose, and have a slow, old-fashioned, 
sociable, sensible journey. Thus far our tranquil visions had 
been more than realized. For three weeks we had been loitering 
placidly along our way, and nothing had occurred to mar our 
tranquility. We hoped now to spend a few days quietly with 
brother J., call on various friends and relatives, visit Central Park 
and a lion or so, shop a little, and move onward at our leisure. 

But man proposes and fate disposes, and nothing in New York 
turned out as we expected. Instead of visiting our friends and 
meandering leisurely about the city, we were caught in a mob and 
penned up in our first stopping place. From the first moment of 
our arrival everything went wrong. J. did not meet us at the 
boat as he had promised, and we had to find our way without him 
in a drizzling rain. The streets were dark, dirty, and crowded 
with ill-looking people. The whole city was enveloped in a fog 
and gloom. The home regiments had gone to drive the rebels 
from Pennsylvania, and many hearts were trembling. The house- 
hold which received us had its full share of anxiety. Its youngest 
member, a youth of seventeen, had gone with the volunteers, and 
other friends were in the Army of the Potomac. The disappointing 
brother, too, was employed on a sad mission, helping a friend to 
Gettysburg to find the body of a slain brother ; so that within 
doors we found it as dismal as without, and our first impressions 
of the great city were anything but cheering. 

Our prospect was limited to two rows of brick houses and a 
broad expanse of house-roofs from our room in the upper story. 
" Nobody was in town," but the streets were jammed with carts 



ig6 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

and children, and the noise and clatter were incessant and deafen- 
ing. The weather continued most oppressive. Low, dingy clouds 
possessed the sky, and not a breath of fresh air was attainable. I 
thought New York a most detestable summer residence, and 
resolved to leave it as soon as possible. 

On the third morning of our sojourn, however, the sky bright- 
ened. The sun attempted to shine, and the papers brought good 
tidings. Lee was retreating, Meade pursuing, the Potomac rising, 
and our spirits rose with it. At breakfast Central Park was 
moved and carried by acclamation ; but soon some pattering rain- 
drops brought out an opposition, which induced us to defer our 
jaunt till settled weather. So we scattered in various directions — 
J. down town, and I to Broadway. But even there I could see 
nothing attractive. Everything looked hot, glaring, and artificial, 
and everybody looked shabby, jaded, and care-worn. An over- 
worked horse dropped dead in the street before me, and I was 
glad to take refuge for a time in the Astor Library. 

Returning thence at mid-day I first saw signs of disturbance. 
A squad of policemen passed before me into Third avenue, clerks 
were looking eagerly from the doors, and men whispering in knots 
all up and down the street ; but I was too much a stranger to be 
certain that these appearances were unusual, though they annoyed 
me so much that I crossed at once to Second avenue, along which 
I pursued my way peacefully, and once at home thought no more 
of it. We were indulging ourselves in siestas after our noonday 
lunch, when a great roaring suddenly burst upon our ears — a 
howling as of thousands of wild Indians let loose at once ; and 
before we could look out or collect our thoughts at all the cry 
arose from every quarter, "The mob! the mob!" "The Irish 
have risen to resist the draft ! " 

In a second my head was out the window, and I saw it with my 
own eyes. We were on a cross street between First and Second 
avenues. First avenue was crowded as far as we could see it with 
thousands of infuriated creatures, yelling, screaming, and swearing in 
the most frantic manner ; while crowds of women, equally fero- 
cious, were leaning from every door and window, swinging aprons 
and handkerchiefs, and cheering and urging them onward. The 
rush and roar grew every moment more terrific. Up came fresh 
hordes faster and more furious ; bareheaded men, with red, swollen 
faces, brandishing sticks and clubs, or carrying heavy poles and 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut IVotncn. 197 

beams; and boys, women, and children hurrying on and joining 
with them in this mad chase up the avenue like a company of raging 
fiends. In the hurry and tumult it was impossible to distinguish 
individuals, but all seemed possessed alike with savage hate and fury. 
The most dreadful rumors flew through the street, and we heard 
from various sources the events of the morning. The draft had 
been resisted, buildings burned, twenty policemen killed, and the 
remainder utterly routed and discomfited ; the soldiers were absent, 
and the mob triumphant and increasing in numbers and violence 
every moment. 

Our neighborhood was in the greatest excitement. The whole 
population turned out at once, gazing with terror and consternation 
on the living stream passing before them, surging in countless 
numbers through the avenue, and hurrying up-town to join those 
already in action. Fresh yells and shouts announced the union of 
forces, and bursting flames their accelerated strength and fury. The 
armory on Twenty-second street was broken open, sacked, and fired, 
and the smoke and flames rolled up directly behind us. 

With breathless interest we watched their rapid progress till 
diverted by a new terror. Our own household had been invaded. 
My brother's wife was gone ; no one knew whither. Abcjvc and 
below we looked in vain for her. We could only learn that a note 
had been brought to her just before her disappearance. What 
could have happened ? At such times imagination is swift and 
mystery unsupportable. We were falling into a terrible panic, 
and devising all manner of desperate expedients, when the 
wanderer appeared, looking very heroic, accompanied by J., all 
bloody and wounded. He had been attacked by the mob while 
passing a little too near them, knocked down, terribly beaten, and 
robbed of watch and pocketbook. Reality for once had out- 
stripped imagination. For a time all our attention was absorbed 
in him. The wounds, though numerous, were happily not of a 
dangerous character. The gang which attacked him, attracted by 
his little tri-colored badge of loyalty, were fortunately only armed 
with light fence pickets ; so that, though weak from loss of blood, 
and badly cut and bruised in head, limbs, and body, no serious 
consequences seemed likely to result from his injuries. 

Outdoors, meanwhile, all was clamor and tumult. Bells were 
tolling in every quarter. The rioters were still howling in 
Twenty-second street, and driving the firemen from the burning 



1 gS Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

armory. The building fell and the flames sunk, and then darkness 
came all at once and shut out everything. We gather gloomily 
around my brother in the back parlor. An evening paper was 
procured, but brought no comfort. It only showed more clearly 
the nature and extent of this fearful outbreak. It only told us 
that the whole city was as helpless and anxious as ourselves. 
Many were in far greater danger, for obscurity is sometimes 
safety ; but the black, lowering night, and the disabled condition 
of our only male protector, oppressed us heavily. Our neighbor- 
hood was all alive. Men tramped incessantly through the street, 
and women chatted and scolded in the windows ; children cried 
and cats squalled ; a crazy man in the rear raved fiercely for Jeff 
Uavis and the Southern Confederacy ; but over every other sound 
every few moments the bell rang out the alarm of some new fire. 
Some were very near ; some at a distance. We would start and 
count the district, and tremble for the Tribune or the Arsenal. 

Thus passed the eve, till at last we separated and tried to 
compose ourselves to rest ; but who could sleep with such terrors 
around them } That fiery mass of frenzied creatures which had 
passed so near us in the afternoon was raging somewhere in the city, 
and that frightful roar and rush might any moment burst again upon 
our ears. They might sweep through our street and scatter every 
thing before them. Fires kindled by them illumined many parts of 
the city. 

As the clock struck twelve a great shout startled me, and a light 
tlamed right up before me. A huge bonfire had been kindled in the 
middle of the street not far below us. Wild forms were dancing 
about it, and piling on fresh fuel. Great logs and beams and other 
combustibles were dragged up and heaped upon it. Sleep, now, 
was of course impossible. From a seat in an upper window I saw 
it rise and fall, flame up and fade. Was it a plaything or a signal ? 
In either case I dared not leave it. A gang of noisy boys gathered 
around it. "Bring out Horace Greeley!" once was called. At 
last, after two hours' watching and wondering, a heavy shower put 
out the fires and drove the rioters homeward. Dark figures slunk 
to darker lanes and hovels, and rest and quiet fell on the distracted 
city. 

At break of day it roused again. Another cloudy, foggy, warm, 
oppressive morning. Very early I resumed my post of observation. 
A black, charred mound loomed up below, and cinders, smoke, and 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut JVotncn. 1 99 

soot filled the air and encrusted every object. Rough-looking men 
were already astir. A car passed down the avenue crowded inside 
and out; another passed ; another, and no more. No rattling carts 
were heard, no shrieking milkmen. All ordinary sights and sounds 
were missing. Soon hordes of ragged children attacked the heap of 
rubhish in the street. Little fair-haired girls and toddling boys bore 
off great armfuls of sticks and brands. Meanwhile the larger 
children, great boys, grown women, had hurried off to the smoking 
ruins in Twenty-second street, and returned laden with spoils. 
Charred beams, baskets of coal, iron rails, muskets, and market- 
barrels were carried by in vast quantities. The "dangerous classes" 
were evidently wide awake. 

Our household meanwhile bestirred itself slowly. J. had rested 
little, but was free from fever or any alarming symptoms. Much 
time was spent in dressing his wounds, and some in preparing break- 
fast. There was no milk, no ice to be had, and meat and bread 
were on the wane ; and so I ventured out with my sister H. for 
supplies. We found our street full of people, excitement, and 
rumors. Men and boys ran past us with muskets in their hands. 
We heard that a fight was in progress above Twenty-second street. 
The mob had seized a gun-factory and many muskets ; but the 
police had driven them off and taken back part of their plunder. It 
was cheering to find that the police were still alive. Second avenue 
was densely thronged, but no cars were running. A great crowd 
surrounded the ruins of the Armory and blackened the Twenty- 
second street crossing. Men talked in low, excited tones, and 
seemed afraid of each other. The stores were mostly closed and 
business suspended. With difficulty we procured supplies of pro- 
visions and a newspaper ; but percussion caps and ammunition were 
stoutly denied us. No one dared to admit that they kept any such 
articles lest the rioters should take them away by force. A friendly 
bookseller at last supplied us. He had been out in disguise, he 
said, and heard the rioters boasting among themselves. One said 
he had made a hundred dollars already, and now he had arms and 
meant to use them. All the shops on the avenue had been 
threatened. The mob were gathering in great force in our vicinity, 
and things looked every moment more threatening ; so we hurried 
home as fast as possible, and I took my post again at the window. 

New and strange sights met my eyes. Such multitudes of 
people everywhere ; filling street and sidewalks, crowding all the 



200 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

doors and windows, the balconies and roofs of the houses. Many 
were merely spectators; some not far distant were actors. In the 
First avenue the crowd was now very dense and clamorous. The 
liquor store on tiie corner was thronged with villainous-looking 
customers, and the women who had welcomed the mob on their first 
appearance were again talking loudly as if urging them on to action. 
"Die at home!" was the favorite watchword which often reached 
our ear's. Everything indicated that a collision was approaching. 
We caught, after a time, a glimpse of soldiers, and heard the 
welcome rattle of musketry, distant at first, then nearer and nearer. 
The soldiers marched to and through Twenty-second street and 
turned down First avenue. The mob yelled and howled and stood 
their ground. Women from the roofs threw stones and brickbats 
upon the soldiers. Then came the volleys ; the balls leaped out and 
the mob gave way at once and fied in every direction. A great 
crowd rushed through our street, hiding in every nook and corner. 
We closed doors and blinds, but still peeped out of the windows. 
The soldiers marched slowly back up the avenue, firing along the 
way ; crossed over into Second avenue, marched down opposite our 
street and fired again. Again the mob scattered, and scampered in 
droves through the street. Yet another volley, and balls came 
tearing down the centre of our street right before us, dashing along 
the pavements and carrying off frames from the trees. A boy on 
the sidewalk opposite was struck ; he fell in a pool of blood, and 
was carried away to die. The streets were now cleared, the crowds 
had vanished, the soldiers withdrew, and the mob was quelled. For 
two hours peace and quiet prevailed. Our neighbors retired to their 
several abodes. We took dinner by gaslight with closed blinds, 
and flattered ourselves that the worst was over. 

But as night came on the sun came out, and men crawled out 
into sight again. A stranger on horseback rode slowly up the 
street. Crowds quickly gathered around him. Swarms rushed 
out of the old liquor store and from all the neighboring alleys, 
and greeted him with shouts and cheers. We saw him waving his 
hat and haranguing the multitude, and heard their storm of re- 
sponse, but could catch no words. Great bustle and preparation 
followed. Women were foremost among them, inciting and 
helping. The rider slunk off eastward as he came, while men 
formed in bands and marched ofT down the avenue. A squad of 
lads, decently clad and armed, marched down our street and joined 



Selections from the Writings of Cojinecticut Women. 201 

those on the corner, were received with loud cheers, and sent on 
after the others. 

The sun set clear, and a beautiful night came on ; a radiant 
midsummer night, but darker to us than the preceding. Dark 
skies seemed more in harmony with the scenes around us, and the 
contrast only deepened the gloom. The papers brought no en- 
couragement. Fearful deeds of atrocity were recorded. The 
mob were increasing in power and audacity, and the city was still 
paralyzed and panic-struck. The small military force available 
could only protect a few important positions, leaving the greater 
part defenceless. Our inflammable neighborhood was wholly at 
the mercy of the mob. Again with heavy hearts we assembled in 
the back parlor and discussed probabilities and contingencies. 
Our position on the very edge of one of the worst of the " infected 
districts," had in it, after all, one element of security ; the mob 
could not touch us without endangering some of their friends. 
The incessant din and clamor without were little calculated to 
strengthen our courage. The warm, bright night set every evil 
thing in motion, and man and beast conspired to fill the air with 
all manner of hideous and discordant sounds. The tramping, 
scolding, screaming, squalling, and raving of the preceding night 
were repeated and intensified. Cats and dogs- squalled and 
howled, bells rang incessantly, and mingled with all these sounds 
came at intervals the most mournful of all, the long-drawn, piercing 
wails of Irish women bemoaning their dead. 

Worn out with listening we resolved at last to try to rest. I 
made up a bundle, put my clothes in running order, read the most 
comforting Psalms I could find, and laid myself down to sleep. 
Scarcely had my head touched the pillow when a new alarm of 
fire sounded. Lights streamed through the door of my room and 
illumined the houses opposite. "Another fire in Twenty-second 
street !" was the cry. The police station had been set on fire, and 
volumes of smoke and flame were rising again very near us. From 
the rear windows we saw it all with the utmost distinctness ; heard 
the roaring and crackling, and felt the heat of the ilames. Soon 
they wrapped the house and caught the adjacent fire tower, whose 
bell was clamoring even now for aid. The mob yelled with delight, 
and drove off the eager firemen. The flames soon wreathed the 
tower and rose in majestic columns. The whole neighborhood 
was flooded with light. Thousands of spectators gazed upon the 



202 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Wotnett. 

scene, crowning the housetops as with statues of living fire. The 
blazing turret shook and reeled, beams snapped and parted, and the 
bell plunged heavily downward, " tolling the death-knell of its own de- 
cease " ; but its dying notes were lost in the triumphant shouts of the 
mob maddened by their success. We heard them hurrying on to the 
gas works, leaving the waning fires at last to the firemen. We could 
hear them pounding and shaking the gates, swearing at their inabil. 
ity to force them, and then rushing off again for some easier prey. 

The fires were now quite subdued, and we ventured to return to 
our several rooms. It was past midnight, but the city was still wide 
awake. The streets were thronged, and the opposite houses were 
all open and brilliantly lighted. They belonged to the better class 
of tenement houses ; and their occupants, though not themselves 
rioters, so far sympathized with them as evidently to feel no fear of 
them. Many were chatting at this time about the doors and 
windows with a careless merriment which I could not but envy. I 
gave a parting look up and down the street, and again sought my 
pillow. The tramping in the street gradually subsided, the din and 
discord slowly died away, and a slight stupor was stealing gently 
over me, when a sudden rush and scream brought me again in an 
instant to my window. There was a spring and a chase, and then 
such piercing, thrilling cries as words cannot describe. I could see 
nothing. Not a person was in sight ; but from the vicinity of that 
wretched liquor store I distinctly heard dreadful cries, and caught 
these broken words : "Oh, brothers ! brothers ! Save me ! save me !" 

The sounds thrilled through the opposite and nearer houses. 
Lights quivered and wavered, and doors were shut hastily. The 
cries and groans continued. There were confused sounds as of 
dragging and lifting, and then silence. A mist had veiled the stars, 
and darkness fallen upon the street. Our noisy neighbors were 
struck dumb. Every door and window was closed, and every light 
extinguished. 'I trembled from head to foot, and could scarcely 
grope my way to the back chamber. Part of our household were 
still watching there, more bells were tolling, and three new fires 
were raging. Destruction and death were on every side. 

Again I returned to my old position in the window, and peered 
out into the darkness. All things looked ghostly and ghastly. The 
houses opposite were dissolved in mist. I seemed to see through 
them far down into the heart of the city, and heard in the distance 
the roar as of great multitudes in commotion. What was passing 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticzit Women. 203 

I could not tell, but anything: and everything seemed possible at 
this hour. Would the night ever end, or anything be left should 
morning come ? Once only the welcome report of musketry 
reached my ears. At last the glimmering of dawn appeared. The 
mist dissolved ; the wandering houses came back to position ; the 
street resumed its old familiar look, and men and boys their ceaseless 
tramp, tramp, tramp. 

One of these men stopped across the way, and said, in a low, 
scared tone to some one in the house : "They hung a Massachusetts 

over there last night." One word was lost to me — what it 

was I can only conjecture ; but whether citizen, soldier, or negro, I 
do not doubt that some poor fellow very near us met the fate of so 
many others in those days of terror ; and though his name and story 
may never be known on earth, his cries for help will surely rise up 
in judgment against his murderers. 

But another day had come, Wednesday, July 15th. A long, 
bright, blazing midsummer day was before us. There was little 
change in the aspect of afifairs without. The city was not all burned 
down, we found. The newspapers were still alive, and insisting that 
more troops were on hand and the mob checked ; but we saw no 
signs of it. The morning indeed passed more quietly. The rioters 
were resting from the labors of the night ; but business was not 
resumed, and swarms of idle men still hung about the streets and 
stores. No cars were running in the avenues, no carts in the streets. 
No milkman came, and no meatmen, and not a soldier or policeman 
showed his head. 

The day dragged on heavily. There was little to be seen, and 
nothing to be done but write letters that could not be sent, and 
wonder at our situation. Little had we thought that our quiet 
pilgrimage would lead us to such turbulent and tempestuous scenes. 
All our plans had been brought to nought. Visiting, shopping, 
sight-seeing, were not even to be considered. All ordinary pursuits 
and pleasures had ceased, social intercourse was given up, and 
nothing remained but chaos and confusion. We heard but the 
vaguest reports of the doings of the city, and still less of the outer 
world. The war at the door drowned the battle afar off. 

It was most humiliating, it was almost incredible, that such a 
state of things should exist in the heart of a civilized and Christian 
community. " Was this your joyous city, whose merchants were 
princes, whose traffickers were among the honorable of the earth ? " 



204 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

Could it be that this great city, the pride and boast of the nation, 
was trampled down and held under the feet of these mad rioters ? 
She seemed utterly prostrate and helpless. Her vast treasures, 
her immense storehouses, her long lines of palaces, her great mul- 
titudes of citizens, were bound and offered up for sacrifice. The 
whole nation was trembling and terror struck. No one could see 
when and where it would terminate. 

Flight seemed the only refuge. Could not we, wearied travel- 
ers, ,at least steal away to some green nook and be at rest .? We 
discussed plans and dismissed them. Nothing seemed feasible. 
There were no cars and no carriages, and no one to help us to them. 
J., though improving, was still unable to go out, and we were 
unwilling to leave him and his family in such circumstances. We 
were bound, hand and foot, in this miserable neighborhood, unable 
to stir out of doors, and with the prospect of another night of 
horrors. 

The day, though quieter than the preceding, was far more 
irksome. The brick walls and glaring streets, the heat, confusion, 
and confinement were intolerably wearisome. The sun blazed 
more and more fiercely. The stillness was oppressive and ominous. 
It seemed the calm before a storm. Already clouds were gathering 
in the horizon. As night approached we heard drums beating, and 
gangs of rioters marched up their favorite avenue. The whole 
population bestirred itself at once. Men, women, and children 
rushed out cheering and clamoring, some hurrying on with the 
crowd, some hanging around the corner. Many soon returned, 
laden with spoil — bedding, clothing, and furniture. The crowd 
increased rapidly in the street and around the liquor store. Great 
excitement prevailed. There was loud talking with fierce gestures. 
Some ran thither with firearms, some with poles and boards. 
Then some one shouted, " They are coming ! " and a small band of 
soldiers appeared marching up our street. The mob seemed to 
swell into vast dimensions, and densely filled the whole street 
before them. Hundreds hurried out on the housetops, tore up 
brickbats, and hurled them with savage howls at the approaching 
soldiers. Shots were fired from secret ambushes, and soldiers fell 
before they had fired. Then they charged bravely into the mob, 
but their force was wholly inadequate. One small howitzer and a 
company of extemporized militia could do little against those rag- 
ing thousands. A fierce conflict raged before our eyes. With 



Selections from the Writings of Conncctictit IVomcn. 205 

breathless interest we watched them from door and windows. We 
feared the soldiers would be swallowed up and annihilated. Some 
now appeared in sight with a wounded officer and several wounded 
men, looking from side to side for shelter. Their eyes met ours 
with mute appeal. There was no time to be lost ; the mob might 
any moment be upon them. There was a moment's consultation, 
a hasty reference to J., an unhesitating response: "Yes, by all 
means ; " we beckoned them in, and in they came. Doors and 
windows were at once closed, and the house became 'a hospital, 
and seemed filled with armed men. The wounded men were 
carried into my brother's room ; the Colonel was laid on the bed, 
and the others propped up with pillows. There were a few 
moments of great commotion and confusion. We flew for fans, 
ice water, and bandages. Some of the soldiers went out into the 
fight again, and some remained with the wounded. A surgeon, 
who had volunteered as a private under his old commander, dressed 
the wounds of the sufferers. The Colonel was severely wounded 
in^the thigh by a slug made of a piece of lead pipe, producing a 
compound fracture. The wounds of two others, though less 
dangerous, were severe and painful. 

Twilight was now upon us, and night rapidly approaching. The 
soldiers had been forced to retreat, leaving the mob in great force 
and fury. We heard them shouting and raving on the corner, and 
knew that we were in great danger. Already they were clamoring 
for the wounded soldiers who had escaped them. We thought of 
Colonel O'Brien's fate, and could not suppress the thought that 
our own house might be made the scene of a like tragedy. Could 
we defend ourselves if attacked ? A hurried consultation was held. 
We had arms and ammunition, and, including J. and the slightly 
wounded soldiers, half a dozen men able and willing to use them. 
But we could not " man our lines." We were open to attack at 
once from the front and rear, the roof, the front basement, and the 
balcony above it. We might, indeed, retreat to the upper stories, 
barricade the stairway, and hold it against all the assailants that 
could crowd into the hall. But if they chose to fire the house 
below we could not prevent it, and then there would be no escape 
either for our wounded or ourselves. 

The Colonel promptly decided the question ; resistance was 
hopeless, could not make the case worse, and must not be 
attempted. Not only so, but all signs of the presence of soldiers 



2o6 Selections froin the Writings of Conncctictit Women. 

must be removed. Arms, military apparel, and bloody clothing 
were accordingly concealed. The Colonel was conveyed to the 
cellar and placed on a mattress. The young soldier, next to him 
most severely wounded, was assisted up to the rear apartment on 
the upper floor and placed in charge of my mother and myself. 
The soldiers who had remained were then ordered to make their 
escape from the house as they best could, and to hasten to head- 
quarters with an urgent request that a force might be sent to our 
relief. The surgeon was also requested to go, but would not listen 
to the suggestion. He had been regimental surgeon for two years 
under the Colonel, and insisted on remaining by his side, to take 
care of him, and to share his fate whatever it might be. He took 
his post, therefore, in the cellar, extemporizing as well as he could 
some scanty means of concealment for both from the boxes and 
bins which it contained. The remaining soldier, though severely 
wounded in the foot, could yet walk with pain and difficulty ; and 
it was decided that, as soon as it should be safe or necessary, he 
should try the chances of escape through the scuttle and over the 
roofs of the adjoining buildings. 

J., with his bandaged head and disabled arm, was liable to be 
taken for a wounded soldier, and his wife and her sister, Mrs. P. 
insisted that he also should betake himself to the roof. He 
could render no material assistance if he remained ; on the other 
hand, his presence might precipitate a scene of violence which 
would not be offered to ladies alone. They did not feel that they 
were personally in danger — so far there was no report that the 
lawless violence of the rioters had been directed against women ; 
and if he could get away he might be the means of bringing 
speedier relief. Very reluctantly he yielded to these considera- 
tions, and prepared to accompany the wounded soldier. The 
mother of the household took refuge in her room on the second 
floor. To her daughter-in-law, wife of an absent son, was assigned 
a post of observation at a front window. The two heroic women, 
H. and her sister, remained below to confront the mob. 

Of all these arrangements, made mostly after we had assumed 
the charge assigned us, we at the time knew nothing. In utter 
darkness and desolation we sat above by the bedside of our young 
soldier, receiving his farewell messages for his mother and friends, 
and knowing not how soon he might be torn from us. There was 
no human power to help us in this extremity ; we could only trust 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 207 

in Him "who stilleth the madness of the people." The suspense 
was terrible. In the rear, as we stole an occasional look-out through 
our closed blinds, we could see men here and there climbing the 
fences ; they might be rioters breaking in, or residents breaking 
out. All was confusion and uncertainty. We knew not friends 
from foes. 

In front the demonstrations were still more alarming. The 
rioters had taken possession of the street, stationed a guard on 
both avenues, and were chasing up and down for the soldiers. 
Then they were seen searching from house to house ; beginning, 
fortunately for us and ours, on the opposite side, proceeding 
toward Second avenue, then crossing the street and coming back 
gradually toward us. At last they reached the house next to ours. 
A few moments we waited in breathless silence. Then came a rush 
up the steps, and the bell rang violently. Not a sound was heard 
through the house. Again and yet again the bell rang, more 
and furiously. Heart throbbed, nerves quivered, but no one 
stirred. Then came knocks, blows, kicks, threats, attempts to 
force the door. Come in they must and would ; nothing could 
stay them. 

Having gained for the retreating party all the time she could, 
Mrs. P. at length unlocked the door, opened it, passed out, 
and closing it behind her, stood face to face with the mob, which 
crowded the steps and swarmed on the sidewalk and the adjacent 
street. What could she do ? She knew that they would come 
in, that they would search the house, that they would find the 
men ; but she was determined not to give them up without an 
effort to save them. Possibly, in parleying with them, she might 
at least calm somewhat the fury of the passion that swayed that 
howling mob ; possibly in that brutal and maddened throng there 
might be a few with human hearts in their bosoms to which she 
might find a way, win them to her side, and enlist their aid in 
saving the lives of the intended victims. That has her only hope. 
" What do you want ? " she asked, while the air was yet ringing 
with the cry that came up from the crowd, "The soldiers! the 
soldiers ?" " Bring out the soldiers ! " One who stood near and 
seemed to be a leader, replied, " There were two soldiers went 
into this house, and we must have them. You must give them up." 
" There were two that came in, but went out again. They are 
not here now." 



2o8 Selections fi^om the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

She spoke in a low but perfectly clear and steady voice, that 
compelled attention, and the crowd hushed its ravings to catch 
her words. 

" Let us see; if they are not here we will not harm you ; but 
we must search the house." 

" We cannot let you in ; there are only women here — some 
that are old and feeble, and the sight of such a crowd will frighten 
them to death." 

" They shall not all come in," was the reply ; and after some 
further parley it was agreed that half a dozen only should enter 
and make the search. The leader gave his orders, the door was 
opened, and the men detailed came in ; but before it could be 
closed the mob surged up, pressed in, and filled the hall. Many 
of them were armed with the stolen carbines. 

" Light the gas ! " was the cry. 

" My sister has gone for a light." 

It came, and the parley was renewed. The leader again 
demanded the soldiers ; insisted that they were there, and said it 
would be better for themselves if they would give them up. She 
persisted in the statement she had made. 

"She is fooling us, and using up the time while they are 
getting away by the roof ! " cried one, and pressing forward with 
his musket pointed at her, endeavored to pass her. Very delib- 
erately she took hold of the muzzle and turned it aside, saying, 
" Don't do that. You know I am a woman and it might 
frighten me." 

The leader returned to the charge. " We know the men are 
here, and if you give them up to us you shall not be harmed. But 
if you do not and we find them, you know what a mob is. I can- 
not control them; your house will be burned over your heads, and 
1 will not guarantee your lives for five minutes." 

" You will not do that," was the reply. " We are not the kind 
of people whose houses you wish to burn. My only son works as 
you do, and perhaps in the same shop with some of you, for 
seventy cents a day." 

She did not tell them that her amateur apprentice boy had 
left his place to go to Pennsylvania and fight their friends the 
rebels. A young man, whom she had noticed as one of the few of 
decent appearance, stepped to her side and whispered to her, 
advising her compliance with the demand, assuring her that the 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 209 

men could not be controlled. The tone more than the words 
indicated to her that she had made one friend ; and she found 
another, in the same way, a moment later. 

Meantime the leaders were consulting whether tliey should go 
first above or below," and decided on the latter. Stationing one 
man with a musket at the door, and one at the stairs, they pro- 
ceeded, pioneered by H., first to the parlors and then to the base- 
ment, throughly examining both. Most fortunately the sentinels 
were the two young men in whom Mrs. P. felt she had found 
friends, and she was not slow to improve the opportunity to 
deepen the impression she had made. But now the crowd out- 
side, thundering at the basement door, burst in the panels, and 
forcing it open, with terrible oaths and threats rushed in and 
filled the lower hall. Part joined the searching party, and some 
hurried up the first floor. One, crowding past the sentinel, was 
striding up the stairs. We heard his call to his comrades, 
"Come on up stairs!" and our hearts sank within us. But the 
sentinel's stern command, enforced by his leveled piece, brought 
him back. 

The main party, having ransacked the basement rooms, now 
turned to the cellar. In a moment a loud shout announced that 
they had found a victim. The surgeon was dragged up, forced out 
at the lower door, and delivered over to the crowd outside. A 
blow from a bludgeon or musket felled him to the earth, inflicting 
a terrible wound on the head. " Hang him, hang him ! " " To the 
post at the Twenty-second street corner!" were the cries as they 
hurried him off. The search within proceeded ; a moment more 
and they had found the Colonel. A new and fiercer shout was 
sent up. An order from a leader thrilled through the hall, " Come 
down here some of yees wid yer muskets ! " 

At the first cry from the cellar Mrs. P. sprung for the base- 
ment, intending to make her way at any hazard ; a sentinel stood 
at the head of the stairway ; a stalwart brute, reeking with filth 
and whiskey. He siezed her, with both arms about her waist, 
with a purpose of violence quite too evident. She struggled to 
free herself without raising an alarm, but in vain ; then a sudden 
and piercing shriek, which rung through the house, made him for 
an instant relax his hold, and, wrenching herself away, she hurried 
back and sought the protection of the friendly sentinel. 

" He will not let me pass ; I must go down." 



2 1 o Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

" You must not," he replied ; " it is no place for you," And 
then he added, looking sternly at her, "You have deceived us. 
You said there was no one here, and there is." 

" I would have done the same thing for you if you had been 
wounded. Look at me ; do you not believe me ? " 

He did look, full in her eye, for an instant ; then said : " Yes, 
I do believe it. You have done right, and I admire your spirit." 

" But I must go down. Go with me." 

" No ; it is no place for you." 

" Then go yourself and save his life." 

And turning over his charge to the sentinel at the door, he did 
go. Meantime the searching party, having found the Colonel, 
proceeded to question him. He said he was a citizen, accidentally 
wounded, and had been obliged to seek refuge there. 

" Why did you hide, if you are a citizen ?" 

Because, he said, he was afraid he should be taken for a 
soldier. They would not believe, but still he insisted on his state- 
ment. Then the muskets were sent for, and four pieces leveled 
at his head, as he lay prostrate and helpless. 

" Fire, then, if you will, on a wounded man and a citizen. I 
shall die, any how, for my wound is a mortal one. But before you 
fire I wish you would send for a priest." 

" What, are you a Catholic ?" 

" Yes." 

This staggered them ; and while they were hesitating the sen- 
tinel joined the group, and as soon as he looked on the Colonel 
exclaimed : " I know that man. I used to go to school with him. 
He is no soldier." 

This turned the scale. The leaders were satisfied, and decided 
to let him go. But before leaving him they rifled his pockets ; and 
here he narrowly escaped falling into renewed danger. While the 
parley was in progress his fingers had been busily occupied in 
quietly and coolly removmg from his pocket a quantity of bullets 
which he had forgotten, and which, if they had been found, would 
certainly have betrayed him. 

Those of the mob who had remained above, disappointed of 
their prey, with oaths and execrations protested against the action 
of their leaders, and sent the ruffian at the head of the stairway 
down to see if it was all right. But the positive statements of the 
friendly sentinel, which JVlrs. P. had the satisfaction of hearing 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 2 1 1 

him rehearse, as the two met in the lower hall, disarmed even his 
suspicions, and the rest could do no otherwise than acquiesce. So 
well satisfied, indeed, were the leaders, and, as it is not unreason- 
able to suppose, so impressed with the resolute bearing of the two 
ladies, that they volunteered to station a guard before the door to 
prevent the annoyance of any further search. As they had found 
the two men who had been reported to them as having entered the 
house, it did not seem to occur to them that there might be still 
others concealed; and so they took their departure, leaving the 
upper stories unvisited. 

The surgeon in the meantime had been no less fortunate. In 
the crowd which hurried him off to death there happened to be 
one or two returned soldiers who had served in the same regiment 
with him, and when he came where it was light recognized him. 
They insisted on saving him, and, raising a party in their favor, 
finally prevailed, and having rescued him escorted him in safety to 
his home. 

While these events were passing below our alarm and anxiety 
were beyond all expression. Our poor charge especially was in 
the greatest distress ; ignorant of the fate of his Colonel and com- 
rades, and apprehending every moment that he might himself be 
found and dragged out by the mob. Of course we knew but imper- 
fectly at the time of it what was going on. We knew that the 
soldiers were in the house, and that men bent on their destruction 
were seeking for them. We heard the clamor without, the cry for 
"The soldiers !" the rush into the hall. Then we heard the calm, 
steady tone of the ladies, holding the mob in listening attention, 
and took courage. We heard the movement through the parlors 
and downward to the basement. Then came the irruption of the 
fierce crowd into the lower hall ; and very soon loud cries from 
below told us that some one was found. It might be the surgeon 
or the Colonel ; it might be my brother, for we did not then know 
that he had effected his escape. 

Again came up screams from below, ejaculations, loud words. 
Could it be that another was found ? Again the heavy tramp of 
many men, this time moving upward and talking eagerly and 
rapidly. They paused in the hall ; we dared not move or breathe ; 
would they come up stairs .? No! The door is opened, men pass out, 
it is closed after them, and all is silent. Have they gone for others 
to complete the search, or to murder those already carried out ? 



212 Selections from the IVritings of Connecticiit Women. 

Venturing at last below, as the stillness continued, I learned 
how favorable a turn affairs had taken. But though relieved for 
the moment, we were still in great anxiety, and in not a little peril. 
No one knew certainly what had become of J. The Colonel was 
greatly in need of immediate surgical attendance, and removal 
from the damp, chilly cellar. Our poor young soldier, too, was 
suffering much, both in mind and body. He was a volunteer of a 
day's service only, and his first experience of civil war was very 
painful. The rioters might learn or suspect that they had been 
deceived, and return to the search. He could bear to be shot in 
open fight, but not to be so hunted down. Help seemed to him 
impossible. The whole military force in the city, he knew, was 
already detailed on special duty, and none could be spared for us. 
If the rioters should come again nothing could save him ; any fur- 
ther attempt at concealment would be worse than useless, and 
flight in his condition was impossible. We tried our best to cheer 
him, and to wait in patience, trusting to Him who had thus far 
kept us in safety. The weary hours dragged heavily onward. My 
mother and myself still sat in the dark with our young soldier, 
while the other ladies attended to the Colonel in the cellar. 

The continued absence of J. gave us now much uneasiness. 
What had become of him we could not conjecture. From time to 
time I looked out from my loophole in the front window. All 
was dark and desolate. Not a light in the opposite houses ; not a 
person in sight but the men stationed before our house by the 
rioters. These marched back and forth in silence while a large 
body were carousing about the old liquor stand. " Come on," I 
heard one call, "and bring eight or ten with you !" They might 
come on again any moment, maddened with drink and disap- 
pointed vengeance. As time went on they grew more and more 
uproarious, singing, dancing, swearing and yelling. 

Anxious and troubled, I wandered from front to rear, now 
leaning out of the window to catch every movement without, and 
carrying back reports to my still more anxious and troubled soldier. 

It was now, we thought, past midnight. We had no hope of 
relief ; no thought or expectation but of struggling on alone hour 
after hour of distress and darkness; but as I was listening in my 
window to some unusually threatening demonstrations from the 
mob, I heard the distinct clank of a horse's hoof on the pavement. 
Again and again it sounded, more and more distinctly; and then 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 2 1 3 

a measured tread reached my ears, the steady, resolute tramp of a 
trained and disciplined body. No music was ever half so beau- 
tiful ! It might, it must be, our soldiers ! Off I flew to spread 
the good news through the household, and back again to the win- 
dow to hear the tramp nearer and fuller and stronger, and see a 
long line of muskets gleam out from the darkness, and a stalwart 
body of men stop at our door. " Halt !" was cried ; and I rushed 
down stairs headlong, unlocked the door without waiting for orders, 
and with tears of joy and gratitude which every one can imagine 
and nobody describe, welcomed a band of radiant soldiers and 
policemen, and in the midst of them all who should appear but my 
brother, pale and exhausted, who had gotten off the house-top in 
some mysterious way and brought this gallant company to our 
rescue. 

There was no time for inquiries or felicitations. The wounded 
men were our first care. Our young soldier in his delight had 
hobbled to the stairway, and was borne down in triumph by his 
sympathizing comrades, while a larger company brought the 
Colonel from the cellar. A pitiful sight he was, all bleeding and 
ghastly, shivering with cold and suffering great pain. Both 
soldiers were placed carefully in the carriage brought for their 
conveyance, and then we ladies were requested to accompany 
them immediately, It was unsafe to remain in the house, soldiers 
could not be spared to protect it, and it was best for us to go at 
once to the Central Police Station. 

There was no time for deliberation or preparation, with two 
wounded men waiting. My mother was stowed away in a corner 
of the carriage, the other mother of the household perched up 
with the driver, and the remainder straggled along with my 
brother in various stages of dilapidation — some without bonnets, 
and some without shawls, and some in the thinnest of muslins and 
slippers. My own clothes were locked up and the keys unattain- 
able ; so I snatched what I could and ran with the others. Our 
military escort soon brought us into subordination. While we had 
been preparing, one of the two companies had been fighting, and 
had utterly dispersed the mob on the corner ; but this we had 
hardly noticed, so intently had we been occupied. They were 
now ready to resume their march. We were formed into column 
with the utmost formality and precision. One piece of artillery 
and one company of infantry preceded, and another of each 



214 Selections from the IVri tings of Cotinectictit Women. 

followed the carriage, marching slowly and majestically along the 
middle of the street ; while we ladies moved as slowly along 
the sidewalks, surrounded by officers, policemen, and newspaper 
reporters. 

The change was so sudden, so unexpected, so magical, that 
it was difficult to believe that we were really in the body. We, 
who had been so lately in the depths of darkness and desolation, 
were now encompassed by armed bands eager to help and serve 
us. Dangers, seen and unseen, were still around us ; great fires 
illumined the southern sky; house, furniture, and clothing were 
left behind us unprotected, but still we could only exult in the 
rescue of our hunted soldiers and our own blissful release from 
suspense and terror. With joyful hearts we followed our martial 
guard. This midnight flitting was full of romantic interest. The 
streets were silent and dark, lighted only by distant lurid flames. 
Slowly and solemnly the long, black procession moved onward 
down the broad avenue, through narrow and winding streets, stop- 
ping only from time to time for water for the wounded soldiers, or 
to scatter the foes lurking around us. Sometimes the skirmishers 
in advance charged out into the darkness, sometimes fired down 
the cross streets, but no serious interruption occurred ; and at last, 
after a weary march, the steady light of the Central Police Station 
gladdened our waiting eyes. 

All now was life and animation. Well dressed citizens were 
hurrying to and fro. Stalwart soldiers lined the street and guarded 
the steps and entrance, through which we were conducted to an 
inner apartment, and with much state and ceremony presented to 
the chieftains of civic power. Three days' experience of anarchy 
had made us feel the blessedness of lawful restraint, and surely no 
body of men ever looked so beautiful as these executives of law 
and government. Such fresh, radiant, energetic, clear-headed, and 
strong-hearted leaders looked able to conquer all the rioters in the 
land. Everybody was wide awake, dispatches coming and going, 
messengers flying about in all directions. 

We were received with great civility and offered every possible 
accommodation, but the best attainable were somewhat scanty. 
The two rooms had each a table, a writing desk, and a stack of 
arms, but no sofa or rocking chair, no chance for napping or loung- 
ing. We saw at once that it was no resting place for us, and after 
a brief council resolved to follow the fate of our Colonel ; and so, 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 2 1 5 

leaving a spot which shines brightly in my remembrance, we con- 
tinued our march to the St. Nicholas Hotel, obtained admittance, 
ascended four flights of stairs, parted with our kind and gentle- 
manly escort, and sat down to rest at half-past two Thursday 
morning. 

Sleep was of course still impossible. The exciting scenes of 
the night, and the incessant roar and rumble of Broadway, kept 
all awake ; and at four o'clock loud cheers brought us to the win- 
dow to see the glorious returning " Seventh " marshaled before us, 
and with all our hearts and voices we joined in the welcome which 
greeted them. A brighter morning dawned upon the city ; other 
regiments had arrived in the night, and we knew that it was now 
safe. Broadway was busy and noisy. Business was resumed, and 
the mob much subdued, though still rampant in our old neighbor- 
hood. A reconnoissance showed that it was still unsafe to venture 
there. We passed the morning comparing notes and considering 
what to do with ourselves. My only desire was to quit the city — 
to beat a retreat as soon as possible. Our quiet tour had been 
rudely interrupted, our plans and purposes brought to naught ; we 
had suffered great fatigue and anxiety, and we were unwilling to 
stay a moment longer. It was humiliating to leave our luggage in 
the enemy's country ; but what were clothes to rest and quiet ? A 
place for our heads was of more consequence than bonnets ! Our 
friends were compelled to stay, but we could go ; and most happy 
were we, now that we were sure of their safety, to improve that 
privilege. And so, at three o'clock on Thursday afternoon, just 
three days from our first glimpse of the rioters, we shook the dust 
of New York from our slippers, and, trunkless and bonnetless, 
sped up North River. 



2 1 6 Selections from the Writings of Connecticnt Women. 
THE MILLER OF DEE. 

BY EVA L. OGDEN (mRS. D. LAMBERt), 



[5/. Nicholas.'\ 



The moon was afloat, 

Like a golden boat 
On the sea-blue depths of the sky, 

When the miller of Dee, 

With his children three. 
On his fat, red horse, rode by. 

" Whither away, O miller of Dee ? 

Whither away so late ? " 
Asked the tollman old, with cough and sneeze. 

As he passed the big toll-gate. 

But the miller answered him never a word, 

Never a word spake he. 
He paid his toll, and he spurred his horse. 

And rode on with his children three. 

" He's afraid to tell ! " quoth the old tollman, 

" He's ashamed to tell ! " quoth he. 
" But I'll follow you up and find out where 

You are going, O miller of Dee ! " 

The moon was afloat. 

Like a golden boat 
Nearing the shore of the sky. 

When with cough and wheeze. 

And hands on his knees, 
The old tollman passed by. 

" Whither away, O tollman old ? 

Whither away so fast? " 
Cried the milkmaid who stood at the farm5^ard bars 

When the tollman old crept past. 

The tollman answered her never a word ; 

Never a word spake he. 
Scant breath had he at the best to chase 

After the miller of Dee. 

'• He won't tell where ! " 

Said the milkmaid fair, 
" But /'// find out ! " cried she. 

And away from the farm. 

With her pail on her arm. 
She followed the miller of Dee. 

The parson stood in his cap and gown, 
Under the old oak tree. 



Selections f^'om the Writings of Connecticut Women. 2 1 7 

"And whither away with your pail of milk. 

My pretty milkmaid ? " said he ; 
But she hurried on with her brimming pail. 

And never a word spake she. 

" She won't tell where ! " the parson cried. 

" It's my duty to know," said he. 
And he followed the maid who followed the man 

Who follow^ed the miller of Dee. 

After the parson, came his wife, 

The sexton he came next. 
After the sexton the constable came. 

Troubled and sore perplext. 
After the constable, two ragged boys. 

To see what the fun would be ; 
And a little black dog, with only one eye. 
Was the last of the nine who, with groan and sigh, 

Followed the miller of Dee. 

Night had anchored the moon, 
Not a moment too soon, 

Under the lee of the sky ; 
For the wind it blew. 
And the rain fell, too, 

And the river of Dee ran high. 

He forded the river, he climbed the hill. 

He and his children three ; 
But wherever he went they followed him still, 

That wicked miller of Dee ! 

Just as the clock struck the hour of twelve, 

The miller reached home again ; 
And when he dismounted and turned — behold ! 
Those who had followed him over the wold 

Came up in the pouring rain. 

Splashed and spattered from head to foot. 

Muddy and wet and draggled. 
Over the hill and up to the mill. 

That wet company straggled. 

They all stopped short ; and then out spake 

The parson, and thus spake he : 
"What do you mean by your conduct to-night. 

You wretched miller of Dee ?" 

" I went for a ride, a nice cool ride, 

I and my children three ; 
For I took them along, as I always do," 

Answered the miller of Dee. 

" But you, my friends, I would like to know. 

Why you followed me all the way.'" 
They looked at each other — " We were out for a walk, 

A nice cool walk ! " said they. 



2 1 8 Selections from the Wi'itings of Cojinecticut Women. 
ME AND BOB AND JIM. 



BY ADA STEWART SIIELTON. 

Yes, sir, we're sailors' children. 

We live there by the sea. 
And father went off with the fleet 

A month ago nia)' be. 
And mother feels so badlj' 

To have him gone away 
If 'twasn't for us children here 

I think she'd cry all day. 

You see there's me and Bobby, 

And then here's little Jim, 
He always hangs back 'cause he's 'fraid 

That folks will speak to him. 
He never knew his mother 

She died so long ago, 
And then his father too was lost 

In last year's awful blow. 

And father said as long as 

He'd sailor's heart in him, 
There'd always surely be a place 

To shelter little Jim. 
He thinks he's ours for truly. 

And he laughs and acts so glad 
When father comes, you ought to see 

Him hug and call him " Dad." 

But often in the summer 

We children like to go 
To where the little church-yard lies, 

The sailor's church, you know. 
His mother's there, so alwaj'S 

We put some flowers from Jim, 
We want him to remember her 

'Cause she remembers him. 

When father sailed he told us 

To watch for the new moon. 
For when it hung there in the west 

The fleet would be back soon. 
Last night we saw it shining 

As bright as bright could be, 
And mother says the " Lively Jane " 

Will soon get in from sea. 

You see it's named for mother 
And father says, he'd "think 



[The Oiurc/iman.^ 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 2 1 9 

A boat that had a name Hke that 

Would never want to sink." 
We've come back here to get scjme flowers, 

He loves the violets so. 
The posies ain't of much account 

Down by the sea, you know. 

So if you'll come and see us — 

The place ain't hard to find, 
The little brown house by the rocks. 

The clifT is just behind — 
And if the " Lively Jane " is in 

With father — you'll see him. 
But any way you always can 

Find me and Bob and Jim. 



WAITING. 



BY AGNES Li MITCHELL. 



\Youth's Companion.^ 



A crocus slept under the snowdrift, — 

Impatient was she. 
She longed for the spring-time to call her 

Once more to be free. 
But the little bells chime, " Not time ! not time !" 
And the icicles hang on the tree. 

The crocus dreamed still of the summer. 

And pushed out her head. 
But the snow fairies tucked her up warmly 

To sleep in her bed. 
And the little birds trill, " Lie still ! lie still 
And wait for the Spring's light tread ! " 

So the crocus her little head nodded, 

And slept where she lay. 
Till the sun warmed the earth all around her. 

For soft-footed May. 
And the little brooks sing. " 'Tis Spring ! 'tis Spring! 
So the crocus came out to stay ! 



2 20 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



PATTY RUTTER. 

BY SARAH J. PRICHARD. 

[ Christian Union. ] 

PATTY RUTER had fallen asleep with her bonnet on, and had 
been lying there, fast asleep, nobody knew just how long ; 
for, somehow — it happened so — there was nobody in particu- 
lar to awaken her ; that is to say, no one had seemed to care though 
she had slept on all day and all night without ever waking up 
at all. 

But then, there never had been another life quite like Patty 
Rutter's life. In the first place, it had a curious reason for begin- 
ning at all ; and nearly everything about it had been as unlike your 
life and my life as possible. 

In her very baby-days, before she could walk or talk, she had been 
sent away to live with strangers, and no real, warm kiss of true love 
had ever fallen on her little lips. 

It all came about in this way : Mrs. Sarah Rutter, a lady living 
in Philadelphia — exactly what relation she bore to Patty it is a little 
difficult to determine — decided to send the little one to live with a 
certain Mrs. Adams, at Quincy, in Massachusetts, and she particularly 
desired that she should go dressed in a style befitting an inhabitant 
of the proud city of Philadelphia. 

Now, at that time Philadelphia was very much elated because of 
several things that had happened to her ; but the biggest pride of all 
was, that, once upon a time, the Continental Congress had met 
there, and — most wonderful thing — had made a Nation ! 

Well, to be sure ! that ivas something to be proud of ; though 
Patty didn't understand, a bit more than you do, what it meant. 
However, the glory of it all was talked about so much that she 
couldn't help knowing that, when this nation — with its fifty-six 
Fathers and thirteen Mothers — was born one day in July, 1776, at 
Philadelphia, all the city rang with a sweet jangle, and called to all 
the people, through the tongue of its Liberty Bell, to come up and 
greet the new comer with a great shout of welcome. 

But that had been long ago, before' Mrs. Sarah Rutter was 
grown up, or Patty Rutter began to be dressed for her trip to 
Quincy. As I wrote, Mrs. Rutter wished that Patty should go 



Selections from the IVritmgs of Connecticut Women. 221 

dressed in a manner to do honor to the city of Philadelphia ; there- 
fore, she was not permitted to depart in her baby clothes, but her 
little figure was arrayed in a long, prim gown of soft drab silk, while 
a white kerchief of purest mull was crossed upon her breast ; and, 
depending from her waist, like the fashion of to-day, were pin- 
cushion and watch. Upon her youthful head was a bonnet, crowned 
and brimmed in true Quaker fashion ; and her infantile feet were 
securely tied within shapely slippers of kid. Thus equipped, Miss 
Patty was sent forth upon her journey. 

Ah ! that journey began a long time ago — fifty-eight — yes, fifty- 
nine — years have gone by, and Patty Rutter is quite an aged little 
lady now, as she lies asleep, with her bonnet on, in the Pennsylvania 
State House. 

" It is time," says somebody, " to close." 

No one seems to take notice that Patty Rutter does not get up 
and depart with the rest of the visitors — that she only stirs her eye- 
lids and turns her head on the silken "quilt," whereon she is lying. 

The little woman who keeps house in the Hall, locks it up and 
goes away and there is little Patty Rutter, shut in for the night. 
As the key turns in the old-time lock, the Lady Rutter winks hard, 
and sits up. 

"Well, I've been patient, anyhow, and Mrs. Samuel Adams 
herself couldn't wish me to do more," she said, with a comforting 
yawn and a delightful stretch, and then she began to stare in blank 
bewilderment ! 

" I should like to know what this all means," she whispered, 
"and where I am. I've heard enough to-day to turn my head. 
How very queer folks are, and they talk such jargon nowadays. 
Centennial and Corliss Engine ; Woman's Pavilion and Memorial 
Hall ; Main Building and the Trois Freres ; Hydraulic Annex, rail- 
roads and what-nots." 

" I never heard of such things. I don't think it is proper to 
speak of them, or the Adamses would have told me. No more 
intelligent folks in the land than the Adamses, and I guess they 
know what belongs to good society and polite conversation. I 
declare, I blushed so in my sleep that I was quite ashamed. I'll get 
up and look about now. I'm sure this isn't any one of the houses 
where we visit, or folks wouldn't talk so." 

Patty Rutter straightened her bonnet on her head, smoothed 
down her robe of silken drab, adjusted her kerchief, looked at her 



2 2 2 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

watch to learn how long she had been sleeping, and found, to her 
surprise, that it had run down. Right over her head hung two 
watches. "Why, how thoughtful folks are in this house," she 
exclaimed in a timid voice, reaching up and taking one of the two 
time-pieces in her hand. "Why, here's a name; let me see!" 
Reading slowly, she announced that the watch belonged to " Wil- 
liam Wil-liams — worn when he signed the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence." "Ah!" she cried, with pathetic tone, "this watch is 
run down, too, at four minutes after five. I remember ! This 
William Williams was one of the fifty-six Fathers. I guess I must 
be in Lebanon — he lived there, and his folks would have his watch, 
of course. Here's another," taking down a watch and reading : 
"Colonel John Trumbull. Rtni down, too! and at twenty-three 
minutes after six. He was the son of Brother Jonathan, Governor 
of one of the Mothers, when the Nation was born. Yes, yes, I 
must be in Lebanon ! Well, it's a comfort, at least, to know that 
I'm in company the Adamses would approve of, though how I came 
here is a mystery." 

She hung the watches in place, stepped out of the glass room 
in which she had slept into a hall, and with a slight exclamation of 
delicious approval, stopped short before a number of chairs, and 
clasped her little fingers tightly together. 

You must remember that Patty Rutter was a Friend, a Quaker, 
accustomed to silence, but then, in her baby-days having been trans- 
planted to the rugged soil and outspoken ways of Massachusetts, 
she could not altogether keep silence in view of that which greeted 
her vision. 

She was in the very midst of old friends. Chairs, in which she 
had sat in her young days stood about the grand old hall. On the 
walls hung portraits of the Fathers of the Nation that was born at 
Philadelphia in 1776. 

In royal robes, and with careless grace, lounged King George 
III., the Nation's grandfather, angry no longer at his thirteen 
daughters, who strayed from home with the Sons of Liberty. 

Her feet made haste, and her eyes opened wider, as her swift 
hands seized relic after relic. She sat on chairs that Washington 
had rested in ; she caught up camp kettles used in every field where 
warriors of the Revolution had tarried ; she patted softly La 
Fayette's camp bedstead ; and wondered at the taste that had put 
into the hall two old, time-worn, battered doors, but soon found out 



Selections from the Wi^itiiigs of Connecticut Wotnen. 223 

that they had gone through all the storm of balls that fell upon the 
Chew house during the battle of Germantown. 

She read the wonderful prayer that once was prayed in Carpen- 
ter's Hall, and about which every member of Congress wrote home 
to his wife. 

On a small "stand," encased in glass she came upon a portrait of 
Washington, painted during the time he waited for powder at Cam- 
bridge. Patty Rutter had seen it often, with its halo of the Gen- 
eral's own hair about it. She turned from it, and lieheld (why, yes, 
surely she had seen that, but not here ; it was long ago in her bab\' 
days in Philadelphia, that Mrs. Rutter had taken her up into a tower 
to see it) a bell — Liberty Bell — that rang above the heads of the 
Fathers when the Nation was born. 

Poor little Patty began to cry. Where could she be ? She 
reached out her hand, and climbed the huge beams that encased the 
bell and tried to touch the tongue. She wanted to hear it ring 
again, but could not reach it. 

" It's curious, curious !" she sobbed, wiping her eyes and turning 
them with a thrill of delight upon a beloved name that greeted her 
vision. It was growing dark, and she might be wrong. But no ; it 
was the dear name of Adams ; and she saw in a basket a little pile 
of baby raiment. There were dainty caps and tiny shirts of cambric, 
whose linen was like a gossamer web, and whose delicate lines of 
hemstitching were scarcely discernible ; there were small dresses, 
yellow with the sun-color that time had poured over them, and they 
hung with pathetic crease and tender fold over the sides of the 
basket. The little woman paused and peered to read these words : 
" Baby-clothes made by Mrs. John Adams for her son, John Quincy 
Adams." 

" Little John Quincy ! " she cried. " A baby so long ago ! " 

She took the little caps in her hands ; she pulled out the crum- 
pled lace that edged them. She said, through the fast-falling tears : 

" Oh, I remember when he was brought home, dead, and how, 
in the Independence Mall of the State House at Philadelphia, he 
lay in state, that the inhabitants who knew his deeds, and those of 
his father, John, and his uncle, Samuel, might see his face. I love 
the Adamses, every one," and she softly pressed the baby-caps that 
had been wrought by a mother, ere the country began, to her small 
Quaker lips, with real New England fervor, for its very own. Ten- 
derly she laid them down to see, while the light was fading, a huge 



2 24 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

picture on the wall. She studied it long, trying to discern the faces 
with their sav^age beauty ; and the sturdy right-doing men that stood 
in the foreground ; and then her eyes began to glisten and gather 
light from the picture ; her lips parted, her breath quickened ; for 
Patty Rutter had gone beyond her life associations in Massachusetts; 
she had gone back to the times in which her Quaker ancestors had 
made treaty with the native Indians. 

" It is," she cried with a shout, " it is Penn's treaty ! " Patty gazed 
at it, until she could see no longer. " I'm glad it is the last thing 
my eyes will remember," she said sorrowfully, when in the gloom 
she turned away, went down the hall and entered her glass chamber. 

"Never mind my watch," she said softly. "When I waken 
again it will be daylight, and I need not wind it. It will be so 
sweet to lie here through the night in such grand and goodly com- 
pany. I only wish Mrs. Samuel Adams would come and kiss me 
goodnight." 

With these words Patty Rutter laid herself to rest upon the 
silken quilt from Gardiner's Island ; and if you look within the 
Relic Room, opposite to Independence Hall, in the old State 
House at Philadelphia, in this Centennial summer, you will find her 
there, still taking her long nap, fully endorsed by Miss Adams ; 
and in Independence Hall, across the passageway, you will see the 
portraits of more than fifty of the Fathers of the Nation, but the 
Mothers abide at home. 

Will Patty Rutter awaken again in Chicago in 1893 ? 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 225 



LIFE AND LOVE. 



BY ELIZABETH BULLARD. 



LOVE S SPRING SONG. 

Exquisite tinting of leaf-buds, 

Soft glories o'er mountain and sea. 
Dawn and Spring in thy heart too. oh maiden ! 

With promise of dear joys to be. 
Pearly reaches of hopeful distance, 

Leading, whither? oh sweet girl for thee.' 
While love broodeth all in the beauty 

Of tearless immortal youth — 
Love, prating naught of dull duty. 

But chanting of gladness and truth. 

The vibrating air is sweet-laden 

With music and perfume of Spring ; 
Songs of the bluebird and robin ; 

Dainty odors that flower-censers fling. 
But absorbed in her lovely self-hood 

Cries the girl, " What to me dost thou bring .' 
" Dear love with thy mystical beauty. 

" Thy soft awakening kiss ! 
" Love, prating naught of dull duty — 
" Love, singing of infinite bliss ! " 

Already, bright wings of the fruit blooms 

Are spread for their short, dizzy flight. 
But, Love ruleth all with the bounty 
Of faith, not yet lost in sight — 
Of Hope that knoweth no doubting. 

Of a morning that dreams not of night. 

Strong love ruleth all through the beauty 
Of fearless unquestioning truth : 

Love prating naught of dull duty. 
Nor hinting of sorrow nor ruth. 
Love, chanting sweet in the Springtime 
And morning of Life and of Truth. 



n. 
love's song at noonday. 

Midsummer ! High noon ! and the Sun-god 

Bums his rays through thy heart and thy soul, 

Working there, what of blessing or cursing, 
Working there, what of rapture, or dole ? 



226 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



Woman, standing now at the zenith 
Of life, while the deep f^ood-tides roll, — 

Woman, pouring on Love's fiery altars 
Rich libations from Life's golden bowl, 

Gifts of grain from the waving grain-fields, 
Rare flowers, and first fruits of the vine ; 

While thy brave lips forget not their smiling 
'Neath brave eyes that of grief give no sign. 

And Love chants a song of weird beauty. 

Of loving for dear Love's sake ; 
Of sacrifice, anguish, and duty, 

Of hearts that love on though they break. 

Still, with a passionate stillness. 

Shines the sea, in the noonday glare, 
Faint with incense of roses and lilies — 

— Of lilies stately and fair — 
— Of roses red as heart's blood — 

Throbs the heavy pulsating air. 
No song, now. of thrush or of bluebird. 

But a low, stifled moan of despair 
From lips that are weary with smiling. 
Smiling on, through grief and pain. 
From a heart that thirsts for loving. 

As the dry earth thirsts for the rain. 

But, forever. Love chants of the duty 

Of love that " counts loss but gain," 
Of the glorious anguish and beauty 
Of loving, though loving in vain. 

Fold on fold, roll the summer storm clouds. 

Thrills the air with electrical fear. 
Peal on peal ! flash on flash ! and the tempest 

For blighting or blessing is here ! 
And the rain pours its mighty libation 

On earth's sun altars, blackened and sere, 
God's rain on the roses and wheat-fields. 

And the deep sea, cruel and drear ; 
Till the floods clap their hands, and a blessing 

Comes at last with the summer rain, 
And revealing the bow of promise, 

God's sun shines in peace again, 
Shines in peace on the bending lilies, 

The torn roses and prostrate grain. 
Shines with peace on the heart of the woman. 

Who worships no longer in vain. 
But with eyes washed clear now, with weeping. 

Sees a vision sacredly sweet, 

A vision of Love's matchless duty 

Wrought for love, through the noonday heat,- 
Supreme Love ! supreme anguish, and beauty ! 
And she clasps Love's pierced feet. 



Selcctio7is from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 227 

III. 

love's even song. 

Red and gold blaze the fires of the sunset, 

Red and gold Hame the falling leaves ; 
Bruised are the grapes in the wine-press. 

Bound the corn in the yellow sheaves ; 
And the wistful eyes of the woman 

Search with patience bom of care. 
Some gleaning from Life's harvest bounty, 

Some late cluster from Life's vintage fair ; 
And an echo of Love's song in Springtime 

Floats plaintive from lips pale and sad. 
As the heart of the desolate woman 

Yearns back to the days that were glad. 



THE NIGHT-WATCH. 

Cold and still 'neath the winter moonlight 

Lie the wheat fields, the harvest long past. 
Cold and white the pathetic churchyard. 

Where in snow-covered beds rest at last 
The toilers for food and for pleasure. 

Old and young, rich and poor, in long sleep, 
While the aged eyes of the woman 

Once more their sad vigils keep, 
Gazing out on the night's frosty splendor — 

Till, lo ! in the east-sky there gleams 
The dawn of Love's new day; and chanting 

New songs, the stars herald the beams 
Of Love's sun, that shall know no setting. 

Dawning day, that shall know no night. 
And always, all sorrow forgetting, 

Happy souls shall stand glad in the light. 



2 28 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

THE DETERIORATION OF MR. AND MRS. 
THADDEUS JONES. 

BY MARGARET L. KNAPP. 

^Independent J\ 

FOR sixteen years the Joneses had carried poverty on their 
backs like an Old Man of the Sea, and though his burden 
had grown heavier w^ith every passing year they had gal- 
lantly borne themselves as if it were invisible to the public eye. In 
an evil hour, when both were young, they had married upon their 
combined prospects and a modest income in connection with the 
tin business. The prospects had long since faded, while the income, 
small for two, had been beaten out and rolled thin, to cover a 
family of four. Miss Mary Addie, the young lady presumptive of 
the family, in her savage moods, declared that "they lived on 
faith, hope and charity — principally charity ;" but this was when 
Miss Mary Addie's haughty spirit rebelled at the ignominy of 
wearing the unbecoming gowns and hats so delicately conveyed to 
them by more fortunate cousins. 

"Why doesn't Cousin Adelaide say right out, 'You're so poor,' 
instead of mincing around about 'saving you trouble, with your 
children growing so fast'?" she demanded, dangling before her 
eyes in dire contempt the blue plaid which was such a sad misfit 
to her complexion. "'Twouldn't hurt that chunky Eva of hers to 
grow some ! There isn't a girl in school but knows where my skirts 
are pieced down under those rows of braid. It makes me think of 
the poor woman in that Christmas story who had seven charitable 
turkeys sent her, and every identical person of 'em said when they 
brought 'em : ' We thought you might not have thouglit to buy 
one, Mum !' " 

Then there was Rudolph, the youthful scion of the house of 
Jones, whose eight years were one long accumulation of yellow 
curls and picturesqueness. Mrs. Jones longed to make a Little 
Lord Fauntleroy of him — this was before the comic papers got 
hold of Lord Fauntleroy, and tore his dainty velvet to tatters ; but 
Fauntleroys cost money when one has no velvet gowns to cut up 
for the purpose, and clothes may come and clothes may go, but 
boys go on forever. Accordingly, she had to do the best she could 



Selections from ihc IVt^itings of Connecticict IVotneu. 229 

with embroidered collars, which were not of a sufficiently luxuriant 
pattern to cover the perpetual patches on his knickerbockers. 

People of limited income can do one of two things — make more 
money to spend, or spend less. The Joneses attacked this problem 
at its tail end ; they called it economizing. They tried their hardest 
to find a thousand-dollar house for three hundred a year, and com- 
promised upon a flat. To be sure, there were two dark bedrooms 
and no linen closet ; the old square piano had to be tipped up end 
for end to get it through the doorway, and bottles of pickles and 
jelly tumblers overflowed to the shelf of the wardrobe; still, 
"there were no sidewalks to clean," as Mr. Jones, who had been 
his own man of all work through one dark winter of discontent, 
triumphantly observed. 

Miss Mary Addie's speech really was a libel, for they always 
paid their way — eventually. They always meant to pay their gas 
bills within the five days, to save the discount ; but they never 
did. They never subscribed for a magazine, but if money hap- 
pened to be flush they bought a copy when it came out. They 
sometimes managed to lay in their winter's supply of coal in the 
summer, at which times Mary Addie told the cat that they would 
have to "live poor" for awhile. She also privately confided to 
her mother that she was glad the contribution boxes at church 
were padded, she just hated to drop in her little ten-cent pieces. 

" Hush, dear ! " Mrs. Jones was accustomed to say, quite 
distressed at the boldness with which Mary Addie was inclined to 
grapple with the household economies, "remember the widow's 
mite." 

"Well, widows might — but she wasn't a widow — so there!" 
(And she never would be, either, if she didn't have more of a 
chance !) 

At one time Mary Addie's soul was fired by thrilling stories of 
girls of sixteen who wrote stories and became famous, or went 
upon the stage, or turned into wonderful geniuses whose voices 
cast a spell like Orpheus's lute and drew gold by bucketfuls ; and 
she answered a cajoling advertisement which offered great induce- 
ments to a person of talent, on receipt of the necessary postage 
stamps — no canvassing required; but when a black and yellow 
circular appeared, agreeing for the trifling sum of one dollar to 
supply her with a book of over five hundred receipts of every kind, 
any one of which was worth the price of the book, and could be 



230 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

confidently expected to make her fortune, her airy dreams of a new 
piano, a feathered hat like that odious Sue Jackson's and a birth- 
day party suddenly collapsed, and she threw herself back upon her 
Latin grammar with renewed acerbity. 

Long practice had given Mrs. Jones a deftness of touch in 
cooking which almost went so far as to create something out of 
nothing. Mr. Jones was seldom made conscious of any deficiencies 
in this respect. He wanted them all to economize, but he did not 
care to see the details of their economizing. Mrs. Jones hardly 
ever ventured to ask him directly for money. Instead she 
launched her meditations into empty space somewhat in this 
fashion : 

" Rudolph will have to have some new shoes before long, I am 
afraid. I don't see how his are going to last much longer. I 
ought to have a new cloak this winter; but I suppose we can't 
afford it — my old one is so shabby I hate to wear it." 

"Why can't a woman have one good coat, like a man, and then 
wear it?" suggested Mr. Jones, good-naturedly. 
"Could, if they paid eighty dollars for one." 
"But your new things always look like old ones, Polly. I've 
seen some women who could make a ten-cent calico look tasty and 
pretty ; and I wish you had that sort of faculty." 

" I believe I should have, if I had an allowance of my own." 
" I'd give you one in a minute if I yNZs, fixed ]m'~,\. right," said her 
husband, "and I wouldn't let you work so hard, either; you should 
have everything you wanted;" and, lost in the glories of a fancied 
future, he quite forgot the present. He did the best he could — he 
had given up smoking — he turned his money over to his wife, and 
never asked her what was done with it. He never nagged her 
about spending money, as Robinson did his wife. 

When, therefore, after this long course of living with nose to 
the grindstone, Mr. Thaddeus Jones appeared in the dining room 
one evening as usual, it was without premonition on the part of 
his family of what was coming. " Polly ?" said he. 

Mrs. Jones was filling up the teapot. " You are late, Thad," said 

she — " Mary Addie, go and turn down the gas you left burning in 

the parlor ; we're going to have a large gas bill this quarter." 

" In a minute, Ma — Pa's pale — what is it, Pa?" 

" Polly," — Mr. Jones braced his hands upon the table, and 

tried to impart his information in the careless style in which a 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 231 

millionaire broker might say to his wife — " By the way, my dear, 
I made a little matter of fifty thousand to-day." The attempt, he 
felt, was a failure. " Polly, I've done it at last!" 

" Done what, Thad ? " 

" I have perfected a new style saucepan with a patent attach- 
ment, that pours to the right instead of the left." 

"And sold it? I'd like one, myself." 

"Sold it? no! not such a fool — I'm going to control it. It 
will supplant the old style in less than no time. There's going to 
be a tremendous demand for it. Polly, we're rich ! " 

The gas burned on at full head in the parlor. Mr. Jones con- 
tinued excitedly : " That was a great idea of yours. I remem- 
bered what you used to say about wanting a handier saucepan, and, 
by Cassar ! I'll name it after you. The Polly saucepan! It's 
worth its weight in gold." 

Mary Addie, transfixed by conflicting emotions, sat motionless, 
with her knife and fork dropping from her limp hands. Rudolph's 
mind was more concrete. " Pa ! say, Pa, c'n I have fi' cents to 
buy some candy ? " he begged, in wheedlesome tones. 

Mr. Jones drew out a handful of small change, and recklessly 
tossed him a dime. 

Then, first, Mrs. Jones began to comprehend the magnitude of 
the change which was about to befall them, and of her own accord 
she gave Mary Addie a second helping of canned peaches, while 
in the developing room of her mind a composite picture of a bar- 
rel of flour, weather strips, and a new bonnet began to take fasci- 
nating shape. 

Money does not always lie beyond a new invention ; but there 
was no doubt about this one. Housekeepers, who for years had 
been laboriously pouring from a right-handed saucepan, now clam- 
ored for the Polly, which gave the right hand the freedom of the 
spoon. It was made in three sizes, of which the twenty-seven cent 
size was most popular. Dry goods emporiums advertised it (at 
a discount) among their Saturday basement bargains. It was a 
success. 

The successful proprietor of a Polly saucepan cannot go on 
living in a flat. There was a fine house for sale further up the 
avenue, built in old style, large square rooms, generous halls, and a 
sweep of driveway before the door. Mr. Jones bought it. " It 
cost him a small fortune," he remarked, triumphantly slapping his 



232 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

breast pocket, where the title-deed reposed ; " but he didn't grudge 
the money — not he." Forthwith he began to be pointed out as an 
esteemed citizen, and invited to take a seat upon the platform at 
public meetings, and an enterprising New York paper published a 
column in its Sunday edition, headed "Got a Corner on Polly!" 
and underneath, " Mr. Thaddeus Jones is interviewed," the whole 
containing items of remote family history which Mr. Jones himself, 
who had bought a copy on the sly to see what it said of him, was 
somewhat surprised to learn, not as yet recognizing the fact that a 
man is great in proportion as the newspapers lie about him. In 
like manner, the new house furnishings became the text of a 
sprightly article in a series of "The Wives of our Inventors," ap- 
pearing in a fortnightly magazine, which asserted that "Mrs. 
Jones's taste is for the simply elegant, and, tho' showing a thought- 
ful discrimination in china and linen, she prefers the chaste, tho' 
subdued furnishings which are in keeping with the historic air of 
the mansion." Mrs. Jones, however, haggled over the price of 
carpets and curtains as she had done all her life, and, in particular, 
could not think of her parlor draperies for weeks without an elec- 
tric sense of guilt, so sharp as to take away her breath. Neverthe- 
less, their house was far from being ostentatious, and, in fact, there 
was a noticeable blankness of wall, except in the library, where a 
number of family portraits of nebulous appearance hung in dark, 
oval, gilt-lined frames — but that would all come in time. A man 
does not get a fancy for picture buying in a day ; and, however 
much he may enjoy a clear steel engraving, the taste for the Im- 
pressionist School, especially that in which the impression is, so to 
speak, blurred, takes time, and must be acquired, like the taste for 
olives. With books they were more at home, and a goodly array 
the volumes made in their low bookcases, although Mr. Jones had 
been heard to say that he didn't know as he cared to go down on 
his knees to his books ; but Mrs. Jones replied that everybody did 
it now, and, for her part, she liked it as well as a step-ladder. 

Miss Mary Addie accommodated herself to her new sphere 
with great elasticity. She had no qualms of conscience about her 
long-coveted feathered hat, and her pink and white China silk. If, 
with the wisdom of a child of light, she wore her cousins' legacies 
five weeks longer than there was need, it was done so that Sue 
Jackson could not call her " Parvenu ! " — besides, she would just 
as soon, now everybody knew she had money to buy things if she 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 233 

wanted. For herself, she felt capable of still further expansion — 
even to the extent of a duke, if opportunity arose. 

Not so her elders. The Old Man of the Sea was gone, but 
they were still conscious of his pressure. Mrs. Jones had worked 
up to the point of keeping both cook and waitress ; but she could 
not rid herself of the old sense of responsibility, and was constantly 
in the kitchen, putting her hand to this and that, while the well- 
behaved cook looked on, listening politely, with a meaning lift of 
her eyebrows. " 'Tis a thought I have as how I ought to be pay- 
in' her something for her help," she said sometimes in strict confi- 
dence to the giggling Norah, while Mrs. Jones wandered restlessly 
upstairs and down, with the gingham apron on, which she was 
always forgetting to take off, greatly to Mary Addie's disgust. No 
cooking to do, no scouring and sweeping, she fell back upon her 
mending, which she had always hated. It never occurred to her to 
hire that done ; and if it had she would have condemned the idea 
as extravagance. She calculated as closely as in the old days, and 
thought twice before spending any money for anything, not infre- 
quently, when she did so, buying a thing she worried over after- 
ward, because she might have done without it just as well. As 
time went on she interested herself in various outside matters, as 
a directress of this charity or a member of that church committee, 
and took a good deal of simple comfort in doing so ; but the ner- 
vous feeling of shirking necessary duty never left her. 

" I can't see but what you feel about as poor as you ever did," 
observed Mary Addie one Sunday evening, when she had been 
playing hymns on the new upright piano. Mary Addie was taking 
music lessons now, and told all the girls that she " expected to have 
her voice cultivated before long." Meanwhile her shrill, high 
soprano added to the sharpness of her remarks. 

There was a silence after Mary Addie had gone upstairs. Mrs. 
Jones sat in an easy chair, looking more thoughtful than usual. Mr. 
Jones was turning over the Sunday paper by the light of an elaborate 
tall lamp. 

" I saw Bridgeman's new house yesterday afternoon," he said, 
presently, without looking up. It was his hal)it to throw out a 
conversational remark like this once in a while, to keep his wife 
from feeling lonely. 

" Did you ? and is it going to be as handsome as they all say .'' " 

" It's a very large house, larger than he has any need of. I 



234 Selections from the Writings of Connectictit Womeji. 

didn't particularly admire the style of the roof, myself. It cost a 
good deal of money, Polly," disapprovingly. 

"Well, isn't Mr. Bridgeman able to afford it?" 

" I don't know — oh, yes, yes, I guess so, so far as that goes." 
He turned a leaf of his paper. " Hullo ! Why Professor Sanscrit 
is dead ! said to have left very little property. Why, I supposed he 
was more successful than that." 

" Why, wasn't he regarded as one of our great men ? " 

" Yes ; but that won't be worth much now to his children." 

" Worth much what ? " 

" Why, Polly, how dull you are to-night ! " said Mr. Jones, 
good humoredly — " money, of course." 

" Yes, money, money, money ! " exclaimed Mrs. Jones, suddenly 
bringing herself into a sitting position. " It 's all we think of ! I am 
just beginning to realize it. Don't you ? Thaddeus, we have been 
growing mean ! We have ! Don't you see that that's what's the 
matter with us ? We've had to scrape and pinch so long that a cent 
looks as big as a dollar to us. I can't see anybody in a handsome 
dress but I must calculate how much it cost. We measure every- 
thing by a money standard " 

" But, Polly " 

" We do ! If a man makes money, we say he's successful ; if he 
doesn't, we say he's a failure. Didn't we have any happiness until 
we were rich ? You know we did." She began to cry. " Mary, 
Addie's right when she sa3^s we feel just as poor as we used to. I'm 
afraid I never shall get to be different. It's mean to be so fussy 
over every cent " 

" But, Polly " 

" We might do more good with our money. We ought to give 
more." 

" I put in my contributions regularly." 

" A mum-miserable little two-o-d-doUar bill," sobbed Mrs. Jones ; 
"and it was for Foreign Missions, too." 

" It was a five." 

"What does that amount to? I — I wish I could act as if I had 
always been used to money ! " 

She was sobbing hysterically, with her face against the chair. 
Mr. Jones looked at his half-burned cigar in perplexity. Puff, puff ! 
what a way women had of flying ofif at a tangent ; puff, puff ! not 
but there might be something in what Polly said, after all ; pufT, 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 235 

puff, puff ! he threw the cigar into the grate and strode over to his 
wife. " Polly ? " said he, sitting on the arm of her chair. 

If the chair had been a relic of the old dispensation it would have 
given out under his weight ; but it was a substantial, modern, forty- 
dollar chair, and it held firm. Mr. Jones slipped his hand behind 
his wife. " Polly ?" said he, " I may be mean, but I've never been 
mean enough not to love you, have I ?" 

No thought came to Mrs. Jones's mind about the way men had 
of flying off at a tangent ; she instantly turned and threw both plump 
arms around his neck. " Oh, Thad ! " she cried, " I never said you 
were mean ! I said we were — and we are ! You've been the best, 
the kindest " 

"There, there, Polly !" She was dropping tears all over the silk 
lapel of his smoking jacket, but neither of them noticed it or cared. 
" You never were mean, Polly." 

" Yes, I was, Thad — often — when I begrudged you the money 
you spent on a hair cut, and said I could have done it just as well 
myself ! " 

"Well, let's walk up and down, and have it out." 

One of their long standing habits was to pace the room together, 
arm in arm, while discussing a difficult household problem ; and it 
was certainly much more satisfactory to do this in a room twenty- 
two by eighteen than to take five steps and turn, five steps and turn, 
knocking off a tidy or two in the process. 

" It all comes to this, Thaddeus," said Mrs. Jones at last, " for 
the sake of the children, at least, we ought to try to have larger 
views of — things — and not shut our eyes to everything that doesn't 
taste and smell of money. You know I always was a goose about 
expressing myself; but that's what I want ; and I think, if we should 
give something — somewhere — whenever we caught ourselves doing 
or saying anything small-minded, we should get over it after awhile." 

" It shall be done, Polly," said Mr. Jones, firmly. 

It would take too long to tell how the Joneses worked out their 
own salvation — besides, this is not a moral tale. It cost them a good 
deal of money to get out of their tight grooves ; but they gave, and 
gave, and gave. From concert tickets, and the picture bought to 
encourage a struggling young artist, to missionary societies, improve- 
ment of their native village, and the Indians, the time never came 
when they needed to seek far for an object. They sometimes say 
that they get a great deal more fun out of it than if they waited to 



236 Selections from ihe JVritmgs of Coimectiait Women. 

die first. " And, talk about the hardening effect of riches," said Mrs. 
Jones to me one day, confidentially ; " there's a good deal might be 
said about the hardening effect of poverty ; but when Thaddeus 
brought me a lovely bunch of tea roses awhile ago, my dear, and I 
never once gave a thought to what they cost, I knew there was a work 
of grace begun in me." 

This was some time ago. The other day Mrs. Thaddeus Jones 
gave a delightful and largely attended chrysanthemum tea to intro- 
duce her daughter. Miss Adelaide Jones, the persimmons quality of 
whose pristine tartness had ripened into blooming wit and good 
sense ; and it needed no second glance at the handsome matron in 
her sweeping velvet, so serenely gracious and assured in her hospi- 
tality, to convince me that the last consciousness of the Old Man of 
the Sea had forever departed. 



TO AN OLD GUITAR. 



BY ANNIE LOUISE BRAKENRIDGE. 

\Century, i592.] 
Her slender fingers, jewel-drest, 

Stole softly to and fro, 
And in and out among the strings, 
To tunes of long ago. 

The golden ribbon kissed her throat 

Where fain his lips would be — 
Oh, how he loved her very breath, 

His sweet maid Marjorie ! 

In velvet drest, with silken hose. 

And jewels not a few, 
Ah, what a cavalier was he. 

In seventeen-ninety-two ! 

My songs are not so quaintly sweet 

As those she sang to him, 
My love and I no picture make 

Like theirs, with time grown dim. 

But music lingers still in thee, 

And love is just as strong. 
As when sweet Marjorie was young 

And tuned thee to her song. 
My love and I will pass away 

Some day, and then will be 



Selections from the Writings of Connectictit Women. 237 



Another hand to touch thy strings, 
And find thy melody. 

Do you not wonder, old guitar. 

Whose hand 't will be, and who 

Will sing the sweet love-songs to him 
Of nineteen-ninety-two? 

I am not sad to think it true 
(The present is so sweet), 

That Joy and Sorrow must unite 
To make thy chords complete. 

For what is Sorrow, Pain or Death 
To us whose souls are strong! 

Time cannot put an end to thee. 

Dear Life, and Love, and Song! 



ACROSS THE CHIMNEY-TOPS. 



I!V AGNES L. MITCHELL. 

I look across the chimney-tops — 
The city's turmoil lies below ; 
Upon how many hearths to-night 
The cheery fire is all aglow. 
And thoughts that come at Christmas-tide 
Float in, with me to bide, 
So near the chimney-tops ! 

And quick as fades the sunset sheen 
The lights leap out to meet the stars, 
As if, perchance, their slender bars 
Might bridge the space between ; 
For me, I need no candle's ray 
To point a way, 
Across the chimney-tops. 

I know the myriad signs of life — 
The shops' display, the hovels, homes, 
The struggles, and the wearying strife ; 
There's food enough for thought, where I 
Look out so near the sky. 
Across the chimney-tops. 

The world seems far, the silence drear. 
This holy night, when friends draw near. 
When hands are clasped and home most dear- 
I know it all ; it once was mine ; 
My thoughts go far, as to a shrine, 
Across the chimney-tops. 



[ Youth's Companion.^ 



238 Selections fro7n the Writings of Connectiait IVotiten. 



And here and there, Hke mindful saints, 
The steadfast church-spires point above. 
I cannot hear, though loud the bells 
Chime out their tale of peace and love; 
Still far away sad memories fly 
To church-yard fields that lie 
Beyond the chimney-tops. 

The city gleams fade one by one, 
Though Christmas cheer be all below ; 
Some thankfulness is due, I know. 
Since through my window smiles the sun. 
What though its joys I must forego. 
Sweet peace that comes at Christmas-tide 
With me may bide. 

Beneath the chimney-tops. 



PAPER WRITTEN BY MRS. S. D. HOLLY. 

AND PREPARED BY REQUEST FOR A RE-UNION OF THE PUPILS OF THE 
HARTFORD FEMALE SEMINARY. 

IN assuming the duty assigned me for this hour, my thoughts 
naturally revert through many decades to the time when little 
more than a child, I came under the care and instruction of this 
beloved woman, the founder and first principal of the Hartford 
Female Seminary. Fully as I realize my incompetency for the task, 
it were indeed a base ingratitude not to affectionately offer an humble 
tribute to her memory. 

Catharine Esther Beecher, the oldest child of a large family, was 
born September 6, 1800, and as she often said, "Came in with the 
century." Her birthplace was the primitive village of East Hamp- 
ton, on the south shore of Long Island. The name of her father, 
the Re\^ Lyman Beecher, is still a name of power and prominence 
in the churches of New England, while the mother, Roxana Foote, 
lovely in person as well as gifted in mind, was as noted for her 
artistic skill as for her domestic and Christian graces. Life in the 
parsonage was on the simplest scale, but the family was large, the 
salary small, and after attempting to add to their living by opening 
a school in the house, a call from Litchfield, Connecticut, was 
accepted, and a new home was begun among the hills about the year 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 239 

18 10. Here Catharine first came into the advantages of the large 
and famous school of Miss Pierce, and eagerly did she seize the 
opportunity. In a letter witten long after, she says: " I enjoyed the 
teaching in music and drawing, but though I succeeded well enough 
in school, I studied but little and guessed the rest." Dr. B. in a 
letter of this time says : " Catharine walked through her classes in 
school." Loving fun and practical jokes, writing prose or verse 
with equal facility, of indomitable energy and good humor, it will 
be readily seen that this young girl was a power not only in school 
but in the large circle of the minister's home. The rapid decline and 
death of this lovely mother when the daughter was sixteen, brought 
the first sorrow into her life, but bravely did she attempt to fill the 
loss as far as possible to the family. A few years later came the 
affliction that changed the whole course of her life. She was 
affianced to Prof. Fisher of Yale, but his life was lost by the ship- 
wreck of the ship Albion on the coast of Ireland. Her father in a 
family letter, says: "Catharine is in an awfully interesting state of 
mind." While overpowered with her grief her vigorous, active and 
ever-searching intellect wrestled with the deep things of God, until 
after a severe struggle she obtained peace in believing, and then 
with the prompt decision which was the habit of her mind, she 
resolved to devote herself to the cause of female education. 

A school of a higher order was needed in Hartford, and in 1823, 
she, in connection with her sister Mary, opened one in an upper 
room, in the third story of a building corner Main and Kingsley 
streets, over the well known sign of the " White Horses." The 
school was at once a success, but the one room was overcrowded 
and inconvenient, and in a few years a removal was made to the 
basement of the North Church and more spacious premises. But 
this dwelling place too, was soon outgrown, and then Miss Beecher 
resolved that a suitable building should be erected, fitted to the 
growth of the school, and the more modern ideas of higher 
education. 

She had many friends among the prominent families of the city, 
and each man was enlisted in her behalf. One drew the plan for 
the building, another the act of incorporation, the company was 
formed and the stock was soon taken, the money raised and the 
building completed and furnished for its occupants. 

Rarely has a school been more richly endowed with teachers or 
had those more competent in their several departments. Do not 



240 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

some of those here present recall the names and persons of Miss 
Brigham, Miss Mary Button, Miss Caroline Munger and Frances 
Strong. Miss Degen, in her French mourning of red and black ; 
Miss Watson, who had forgotten more history than we ever knew ; 
Mrs. Stowe (God bless her,) and Mrs. Gammage, whom we liked 
to tease till Miss Beecher taught us to love and admire her by telling 
us her sad history. 

Perhaps less progress was made in simple acquisition than in 
some schools, for I remember certain sad failures on examination 
days of girls, who should have done better, but we had learned some 
lessons quite as valuable not always taught thus early. We were led 
on to think out a subject by our own processes, to differ from the 
text book and then defend our position, to strive for mental and 
moral elevation, rather than to dazzle others by whole pages of dates 
or figures, these were the standards held up for the education of our 
young minds. Yet in certain studies unusual progress was made. 
Mental and moral philosophy, rhetoric and logic, were really 
enjoyed by those who caught the enthusiasm of the teacher. Where 
the class differed from the author of the text book in rhetoric in 
some of his definitions, a correspondence was opened. Not agree- 
ing with the views of the Scotch philosophers on the action of the 
mind, Miss Beecher at once begun to write another philosophy, 
found a printer, herself the publisher, and we studied our daily les- 
sons from the proof sheets under a strict pledge of secrecy. And 
here in connection with Miss Beecher writing school books, is a 
story told by one of her brothers. In the year thirty-one while her 
father lived in Boston, she went there to correct the proofs for her 
arithmetic, which was being printed by Perkins & Marvin. Included 
in her shopping list was the purchase of two traveling trunks, and 
finding those that suited her otherwise, she objected to the prices 
asked, twelve and ten dollars. " Twelve dollars is more than I feel 
able to pay for a trunk, but I am willing to give you eleven apiece." 
The dealer hesitated, slowly decided, while she went home rejoicing 
in her bargain, and was greeted with shouts of laughter by those 
who would never spoil a joke for relationship's sake. 

To return, it was not difficult for this earnest woman to keep her- 
self in touch, to use a modern phrase, with the latest methods in the 
management of schools. Long before the gospel of athletics was 
proclaimed, she had teachers trained in the more graceful calisthenics 
and our recess was the time of daily practice. Elocution too 



Selections from the Writings of Connect ic Jit Women. 241 

was a constant exercise, and more than a half century since the class 
rooms resounded with vowel sounds and impassioned shoutings of 
unutterable aspirates. And far ahead of her time was Miss Beecher's 
skill in teaching English composition. To gain a knowledge of 
words, the scholar was taught to transfer poetry into prose, analyze 
an essay, catch the style of a popular writer, and if gifted enough to 
transmute prose into poetry. Then when words and ideas had 
accumulated so that a subject could be readily handled, a composition 
might be attempted. 

Nor was the training of the moral and religious nature slighted 
for intellectual pursuits. Many of us here gathered can well remem- 
ber the anxious entreaties, the earnest appeal and the wise and affec- 
tionate counsel given to those beginning the new life. Such con- 
tinued effort in so many directions wore constantly upon the nerves 
and health of the principal of this large and popular school, and at 
last, after many attempts to rest and restore her failing health, Miss 
Beecher found her resignation an absolute necessity, and reluctantly 
left the institution which she had founded, and where she had faith- 
fully labored so many years. But inaction was impossible for one 
of her nature. In 1835, she went with her father and his family to 
Cincinnati, where Dr. B. had received a call to the pastorate of a 
church, and to be the President of Lane Seminary. 

The journey was a long and tedious one, and many of the experi- 
ences new to one whose life had been passed in New England, and 
was full of suggestion to her always-stirring intellect. She had 
faithfully done her work where the means for education were on 
every side, what could she do now with broken health and without 
money to aid the new communities stretching out to the literally 
boundless West ? 

She organized some schools in the cities and engaged personally 
in teaching in Cincinnati and Milwaukee, but her various plans on 
the subject at last took form in the organization of a " National 
Popular Education Society " with Ex-Governor William Slade of 
Vermont as General Agent. His duties being to deliver addresses 
in various towns and cities, to raise money for the cause, and as far 
as possible to awaken interest in the movement. In order to develop 
her work in the plan. Miss Beecher secured some vacant rooms in 
the old Orphan Asylum in Washington St., in this city, where some 
twenty or more teachers disposed to go under the patronage of the 
Society, were collected, examined and drilled by an experienced 



242 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

instructress, for some weeks. Meantime letters of applications from 
those wishing teachers were received, the fitness of each young lady 
for the place was closely scrutinized and at the close of this short 
term, the class started for their new homes under the faithful care of 
Gov. Slade. 

From this system of personal acquaintance it was found that but 
few mistakes were made, and the amount of good resulting was 
incalculable. And may the writer be pardoned here for introducing 
an incident of our late war bearing on the subject. In a well-fought 
engagement, one company had shown such unusual bravery that the 
general in command desired that they should be publicly thanked. 
" What else did he expect from Slade's girls boys?" was their instant 
rejoinder. And the writer of this had the pleasure of hearing of a 
lady who had gone out in one of those classes, that she had been the 
means of founding a most useful college, and at her death was 
mourned as having done more for the cause of education than any 
man in that section of the State. And as a pleasant episode in his 
labors. Gov. Slade delighted to tell the history of one of these elect 
ladies, the first sent to California by the Society. The journey by the 
isthmus was an expensive one, and the agreement was that each 
should teach at least a year, or repay their traveling expenses. Not 
long after they had begun their work there, Gov. Slade was surprised 
when at a hotel in New York, by a gentleman who desired a private 
interview, this being granted, the stranger's story was soon told. He 
wished to make one of these teachers his wife, but she claimed a year's 
delay until she had fulfilled her pledge to the Society. The Governor 
told him the only alternative was to repay the money expended for 
her, when she would be released. With great alacrity the gentleman 
opened a well filled pocketbook, counted out the sum named, added 
a donation to express his thanks, and the gentlemen parted, one to 
claim his bride, and the other laughingly to relate the incident. 
Some of those who have used Miss Beecher's cook-book may be 
interested to know how it was prepared, as it proved a popular work 
and made Miss Beecher's name famous, in an unexpected way. She 
had promised in connection with a friend to have the material of 
such a work ready for delivery to the Harpers, on a specified date. 
The time was near, for some reason the work was not begun and the 
penalty was serious. In no way daunted. Miss Beecher desired some 
ten or twelve old pupils to be invited to meet her at tea at the house 
of a friend ; then the story was told. The slips of heading into 



Selections from the Writings of Conncctictit Women. 243 

which a cook book may be rightfully divided, were assigned to those 
present, and they were asked to round out a certain number of pages 
of recipes upon fish, flesh and fowls, cakes and dainties, and return 
to her the results of their new studies. These were compiled into a 
book and the work became a reliable favorite. This little incident 
may portray one of Miss Beecher's characteristics ; sanguine and full 
of resource, never discouraged and readily adopting new plans when 
the old ones failed. She delighted to set many wheels in motion, 
and if some ran off the track, others were eminently useful in the 
way. Miss Beecher was a many-sided woman, though fond of 
studies involving deep thought, she readily found her sphere in 
action. She feared nothing because it was high or difficult, she 
despised nothing because it was small or insignificant. Generous 
almost to improvidence, she earned money but dispensed it freely ; 
fond of music and delighting in art. She left little space for 
accomplishments in her system of education. To develop the high- 
est form of character ; to control circumstances instead of being 
controlled by them ; to live to accomplish impossibilities even, this 
was the high standard she set for herself and her pupils. 

But when fourscore years had passed this useful life came to its 
end and she entered into her rest and her reward. The brother 
whose house was her home, writes : 

" Like a mirror fractured, each piece like the whole, so Sister 
Catharine ' went to pieces.' Incessantly, yet incoherently active — 
now with her hands fixing up her well-worn conveniences of dress, 
shoes and writing apparatus ; now writing a page or two of educa- 
tional planning, and correspondence with bishops, statesmen and 
capitalists, running ten times a day to play snatches of tunes from 
her antique repertoire, always ending with a quavering hymn refrain, 
' It's better farther on.' Then back to her room ready for meta- 
physics until would come the exclamation, 'My head is tired, Tom.'" 
And her brother adds, " I was alone in the house when she was over- 
taken by apoplexy at or near midnight. I listened at her door, but 
her heavy breathing suggested only sound sleep and not the fatal 
stroke. I think that she lay unconscious from Friday to Sunday 
evening. Early in the week we buried her privately, and returning 
Brother Edward interested a large audience with reminiscences, and 
an appreciative estimate of her character." 

" A few years afterwards I buried by her side the youngest, the 
Rev. James Beecher, as she was the oldest of my father's children." 



244 Selections from the Wi'itings of Connecticut Women. 



MISS PHOEBE'S VALENTINE. 

BY CONSTANCE GODDAKD DU BOIS. 

{^Home Maker, 1S93.] 

MISS PHOEBE lived in a little low house on the corner of 
the village street, and it was set so directly on the side- 
walk that the passer-by, if so inclined, could extend a hand 
for a friendly greeting through the open window. It is not recorded 
that this had ever occurred. Miss Phoebe was slow of recognition, 
and although her rocking-chair stood near the window for the con- 
venience of her needlework, she was screened from obtrusive obser- 
vation by a tall flower-decked, spindle-legged table. The top of 
the table was only large enough to hold a tall pink glass vase in 
the shape of a twisted cornucopia, and two little yellow ones of 
no decided design. These were filled every morning with fresh 
flowers arranged in stiff bouquets. Miss Phoebe's potted plants 
grew better for cutting. 

"Why do you always turn your flowers so they face toward the 
street, Miss Dawson?" asked Belinda Long, the girl who was 
learning her trade of seamstress under Miss Phoebe's direction. 
She often asked idle questions, and stopped her sewing to wait for 
the answer. She would hold her pretty head on one side, like a 
cockatoo, Miss Phoebe said to herself, and curl her little finger 
outward as she held her needle suspended. Phoebe Dawson was 
a sufficiently amiable woman, but Belinda's ways had power to irri- 
tate her. 

" I like to set them where they can be seen," was the short 
reply. 

In fact, Miss Phoebe's table might be called the shrine of the 
passer-by, so carefully was it designed with reference to exterior 
effect. 

" Amos Lodge goes by here five or six times a day back and 
forth from his school, but he never turns his head," said Belinda, 
with droll emphasis. 

" What is Amos Lodge to me ?" demanded Miss Phoebe, sniff- 
ing in an agitated manner. 

" He's your brother-in-law, ain't he ?" asked Belinda. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 245 

" He married my sister, Betty, who died fifteen years ago," 
replied Miss Phoebe, pressing a small, folded handkerchief to 
her lips. 

" When she died it's a pity he didn't marry you," remarked 
Belinda. 

Phoebe Dawson rose and went into the kitchen, closing the 
door behind her. Belinda heard a rattling of fire-irons, and she 
threw herself back in her chair in a fit of silent laughter. 

" Hasn't she set her cap for him these fifteen years ? " she said 
to herself; "and in England, before she followed him to America, 
didn't the folks call her ' the deceased wife's sister ' ? Philetus 
Brown says so, anyhow." 

The thought of Philetus caused Belinda to fold her work with a 
glafice at the clock. It was nearly noon, and at the stroke of the 
hour Amos Lodge and his favorite pupil would pass the window, 
Amos striding on ahead with his slow, awkward gait and bent 
shoulders, and Philetus lingering for a bow and a smile. When 
Miss Phoebe was absent he was sometimes pelted with a blossom 
stolen from the yellow vase, and in return he would throw a 
kiss to Belinda. The danger of observation and the need of 
thwarting it made this by-play very interesting to the two young 
people. 

To-day the two men went by as usual, and Philetus lifted his hat 
to Belinda with a smile. She rose and opened the window. A 
frosty wind blew through the low, over-heated room. 

" It is dreadful warm in here," she said. " Miss Dawson hates 
the cold like a cat." 

" Haven't you a flower for me, Belinda.?" asked Philetus. 

"What would you do with it if I gave it to you?" she replied. 

" Wear it over my heart, as I did the last one," he said. 

" I know you threw it away the very next minute," said Belinda, 
" but you might as well have this chrysanthemum. It's doing no 
one any good here." 

She took a fine large blossom from the vase, and Philetus stepped 
forward to receive it, when an unseen hand was deliberately extended 
over Belinda's shoulder, the flower snatched from her fingers and 
flung with force upon the open book which Amos Lodge was read- 
ing as he went. 

He looked up in surprise at the sight of Phoebe Dawson's flut- 
tering cap-strings and blushing countenance. 



246 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

"Thank you," he said absent-mindedly, placing the flower in his 
buttonhole. 

" Was that what she expected me to do with it ? " he asked 
rather ruefully, as Philetus, stifling his laughter, resumed his place 
by his preceptor's side. 

" It was a proper thing to do," replied Philetus. " It shows that 
you appreciate the favor and respond to the sentiment which 
prompted it." 

Amos raised his eyebrows. 

"I am not so sure of that," he said. "I only meant to be 
polite." 

"But Miss Dawson evidently means more than that," said 
Philetus mischievously. "This is leap-year, and to-morrow will be 
St. Valentine's Day." 

Amos Lodge laughed merrily. 

" Phoebe is very kind," he said. " I have always had a liking 
for her. If folks had not talked about us for fifteen years it might 
have came to something, but I'm shy, and Phoebe's proud. They 
said she was always running after me, but I never saw anything of 
the sort in her ways, nothing more than sisterly affection." 

" But when a woman opens the window and throws a flower to 
you it must mean something more," said Philetus. 

Amos Lodge pondered this proposition in silence during the 
remainder of the walk. The boarding house where he and Philetus 
had their quarters seemed more than ever dreary and desolate to 
him, the dinner less inviting than usual, his fellow-lodgers noisier 
and less congenial. 

" A man of my age should have a seat by his own fireside and a 
tidy wife to pour his tea," he said to himself. 

There had been a time when life had seemed to Amos a single 
volume of romance, which fate had closed and buried in a conse- 
crated crypt never more to be profaned by a touch. He had written 
a poem on this subject. Its stiff" metre and stilted metaphors had 
been an awkward transcript of his passionate regret. Now he felt 
that the stern prose of life had its meaning and justification. 

As he sat thinking by his study fire in the evening, Philetus 
tapped at the door and entered with a rosy face. 

" I am going to send a valentine to Miss Belinda Long," he ex- 
plained, going directly to the point, " and I don't want to buy the 
foolish gilt paper things they sell in the stores. I 've got a bunch of 
flowers for her, and I want to send a poem with them. I 've tried 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 247 

my hand on it for a week, but all I can think of is, ' Love me little, 
love me long,' and that won't do. Then I can't find a rhyme for 
Belinda. Do write something for me, Mr. Lodge." 

Amos did not refuse this request, for his poetic gift was the one 
of his talents in which he had most confidence, though an unapj)re- 
ciative public had little acquaintance with the products of his muse. 

He sat up kite to write the verses, taking a pleasure in the task, 
and almost fancying that he was young again and composing a valen- 
tine to send to the mistress of his own affections. This sympathetic 
inspiration gave an added fervor to his lines : 

" Fair charmer, stay your steps and turn your eyes 
To where I faint and languish for your love. 
Oh, give a soothing balm to hush my sighs. 

And breathe an answer that my cure may prove ! 

" Your looks should heal the wound that they have wrought ; 
I claim your heart since you have stolen mine. 
If pity lives and kindness moves your thought. 
Oh. give consent to be my Valentine! " 

"Will it do ?" asked Amos nervously, presenting this poem to 
his pupil in the morning. 

"It is fine!" cried Philetus with enthusiasm. "She'll know I 
did not write it, but that makes no difference. She knows what 
my feelings are. I'd marry her to-morrow if I were five years 
older and had a thousand a year to start with." 

He sighed and blushed, wondering that he gave this confidence 
to his elderly preceptor, but the day was made for expansive 
sentiment. 

Before sealing the verses in a scented envelope Philetus added 
these lines : 

" If you agree, my deadest B., 
Wear my flowers to church for me." 

Choosing the most romantic method of presenting his tribute 
of affection, Philetus laid his flowers and the pink-sealed envelope 
on Miss Phoebe's spindle-legged table, to which he had access 
through the open window. The window was always open for 
ventilation at a certain hour in the morning, and Belinda in a 
becoming cap was usually to be seen wielding a feather duster. 

To-day, unfortunately, Belinda slept late, and it was Miss 
Phoebe who found the valentine. She broke the seal with anxious 
haste, and as she recognized Amos Lodge's handwriting she sank 
into her rocking-chair, and read the verses as eagerly as Belinda 



248 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

might have done. A faint color rose to her cheeks, and an unac- 
customed moisture to her eyes. 

" It is Valentine's Day, to be sure," she said. She picked up 
the bunch of yellow daffodils and buried her face in their stiff 
blossoms. "It must all have come from the flower I snatched 
from that little flirt Belinda, and flung at Amos by mistake," she 
concluded. " He took it in earnest, no doubt, and thought I was 
flirting — at my age ! " 

Miss Phoebe laughed to herself in a girlish way. She felt that 
it was ridiculous to be so happy, but there was nothing ridiculous 
in her love for Amos. It was rooted in the depths of her being. 

The lines scrawled at the bottom of the page were evidently 
written in haste, as Amos's stiff Spencerian hand could hardly be 
recognized in them — the " P," for instance, looked very like a 
" B," — but Miss Phoebe ascribed this to a lover's agitation ; and 
the descent from a stately Pegasus to homely doggerel seemed 
admirable in its close personal application to the circumstances of 
the case. Wear the flowers ! To be sure she would, in a conspicu- 
ous place on the bosom of her new mantilla. Of course every one 
in meeting would stare to see her decked like a girl, but for Amos's 
sake she would wear a sunflower, if need be, in her buttonhole. 

The next day was Sunday, and Amos, urged by his young com- 
panion, was early in his seat in church. Philetus had not confessed 
the addition he had made to the words of Amos' poem. He felt 
that as poetry they would be considered incongruous, and moreover 
that so personal a token of Belinda's favor should not be shared with 
another. He had chosen a seat in a corner where without turning 
his head he could watch those who entered, and he hoped to 
encounter, as it often had happened, a glance from Belinda. 

She came, and his heart beat rapidl)^ at a sight of her Sunday 
attire, curled locks, and plume-crowned hat ; but where were his 
flowers ? Philetus started with an exclamation of horror and despair, 
which caused Amos to look up in alarm. Miss Phoebe, with a blush- 
ing glance at Amos, had entered behind Belinda, wearing upon her 
bosom an enormous bunch of yellow daffodils. 

Philetus sat rigid in his seat through the prayers and hymns. 
Belinda had passed him by without recognition. She had turned a 
mocking and contemptuous look toward Miss Phoebe's nodding 
flowers, which won many stares and smiles from her fellow-worship- 
pers, and had then devoted the brightest beams from her eyes to the 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut IVotncn. 249 

survey of Philetus' most formidable rival, Joe Williams, who sang 
tenor in the choir. Joe Williams was an irreverent youth who could 
flirt behind a hymn-book. He walked home with Belinda at the 
close of the service, while Miss Phoebe detained Philetus in his 
corner by stopping to speak to Amos before he had left his seat. 

" I got your valentine, Amos," she said in an audible whisper. 
" I knew your hand, so I must thank you for it. Vou see I wore 
your flowers." 

This was said with such pointed emphasis that Amos, overcome 
with surprise, could only remain in blushing silence, while Philetus 
sank back upon the cushion with a groan. Miss Phoebe darted a 
severely questioning look at the young man as she turned and left 
the church. 

"What does it mean ?" gasped Amos. 

" She has worn my flowers," said Philetus, with the calmness of 
desperation. " She thinks that my valentine to Belinda was sent to 
her from you. I remember now that I did not direct the envelope. 
Of course I thought Belinda could be the only one to receive it. I 
did not imagine that an old woman with one foot in the grave would 
be thinking of valentines." 

" Phoebe is forty-two, and I am forty-five," said Amos calmly. 
" I do not feel decrepit, however I may appear." 

■' But it is so absurd ! " exclaimed Philetus, vexed at this lack of 
sympathy in his friend. " 1 wrote at the end of your poem these 
additional lines : 

■ If you agree, my dearest B., 
Wear my flowers to church for me." 

What does ' B ' stand for, 1 wonder ? Of course Belinda is angry, 
for I had as good as told her I would send her a \itlentine. I shall 
explain at once, and Miss Phoebe may return her flowers and her 
verses to the proper owner." 

Amos laid a detaining hand on his young friend's shoulder. 

" Let it pass, I beg of you, Philetus," he said. "They were my 
verses, after all. Phoebe could never get over the hurt to her pride. 
I am willing things should be as they are." 

Philetus hid his face in his hands. His preceptor asked a hard 
thing of his generosity. He knew Belinda's fickle nature and quick 
self-conceit, which magnified a trifling slight into a cause for deep 
offense. Perhaps this feather's weight would turn the scale against 
him. Perhaps he should lose her forever. 



250 Selections from the Writings of Conncctiait Women. 

He felt youth's angry scorn of age usurping its province and pre- 
rogatives. What right had people on the shady side of forty to cel- 
ebrate the day of St. Valentine ? He could have laughed at the 
absurdity of it, but he was closer to tears. Meantime Amos was 
waiting with kindly patience for his answer. 

Philetus lifted his head with a forced smile. " God bless you, 
my children," he said, with a mockery of humor. " I will not be an 
impediment to your union." 

Then he hurried from the church, ran frantically past Belinda's 
house, where he saw the hated figure of Joe Williams in the rocking- 
chair by the window, and reaching his home and his own room, he 
flung himself upon a lounge in the despair of early youth, which 
believes in no future and sees no remedy. 

Miss Phoebe and Amos were married in the spring; and it was 
about this time that Belinda Long sent back Joe Williams's engage- 
ment ring with the sufficient explanation that she had changed her 
mind. 

Philetus Brown, who had finished his studies, was clerk in an 
office in Boston, where he had many kind letters from Amos Lodge, 
who sent him frequent tidings of Belinda. The news of her broken 
engagement was cheering to Philetus, reviving past hopes and fond 
imaginings, which received a happier confirmation in a letter from 
Amos, enclosing, folded in a sheet of scented paper, Belinda's 
picture and a pressed and faded yellow daffodil. 



LIFE AND LOVE. 

BY JESSICA WOLCOTT ALLEN. 

A dark and lonely way, 

A constant strife, 
A dreary wilderness, — 

Oh, this is life ! 

A star that thro' all storms 
Bright beams above,— 

A sunbeam on the waste, — 
Oh, this is love ! 



{Good Cheer, ISS^] 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 251 
AN ISOLATED FACT FOR THANKSGIVING. 

BY ANNIE A. PRESTON. 

[Hartford Courant.] 

MATTHEW ARNOLD admitted the other evening at Unity 
hall that isolated facts even might he valuable. While his 
suggestive lecture was still ebbing through my mind, I 
chanced to meet with an aged inhabitant and heard in response to my 
plea: "Tell me something that happened on some Thanksgiving 
day long ago when your grandparents or great-grandparents were 
young," this incident, an isolated fact that has dropped down out of 
the past as a grain of gold going to the bottom in the cradling, is 
picked out and saved, and by its purity, rarity and intrinsic value 
holds its own and is valued long after all trace of its origin is for- 
gotten. I have arrayed my unearthed treasure for the national feast 
trusting that its setting may not affect it as blond frizzes do a 
grizzled top-knot and that the mysterious stranger may be again 
welcomed in many a hospitable New England home : 

Upon one inclement Thanksgiving day, more than a century 
ago, a large party were assembled in a roomy old mansion on a 
breezy Connecticut hill-top. 

This was the home of an aged couple, whose children, numbering 
twelve when they went out into the world, were now coming back 
even to the fourth generation from the four points of the compass in 
such numbers as to fill the immense old house from garret to cellar. 

This Thanksgiving was an extra occasion, an anniversary feast in 
the family calendar, the dignity of which it was everybody's business 
to maintain, the babies and the dogs even from every household 
represented seeming to feel intuitively an individual responsibility to 
behave at their best. 

It was fifty years that day since the aged host and his wife were 
wed. Twenty-five years had passed since their oldest daughter had 
taken for better and for worse young Parson Lawton from the 
neighboring town of X., and on this day a rosy daughter of the 
house was to be united in wedlock, by her uncle, the parson, to the 
son of a prosperous neighbor. 

The great house was swarming with life. Huge fires in the wide 
mouths of the staunch capacious stone chimneys crackled and flamed 
forth light and warmth from every room. 



252 Selections from the Writings of Connectiait Women. 

Deep brick ovens held mysterious treasures of flaky chicken pies 
and golden Indian puddings. Fowls suspended from the ceiling slowly 
roasting before the fires were basted by bustling matrons or by rosy- 
faced girls, each of whom saw herself in fancy the presiding genius 
of some home of plenty, the loved and chosen consort of some swain 
who now jierhaps watched her from the background or considerately 
and gallantly with bashful compliments held a fan-shaped screen 
between the glowing cheeks and the dancing flames. 

In the ancient log kitchen, the nucleus of all this substantial pile 
of farming buildings, a fat pig was being barbecued. The pantrys 
and corner cupboards in all conceivable out-of-the-way niches and 
nooks fairly swelled the doors ajar by the plenty within. Through 
the glass front of the almonry, dubbed the "almira" by our grand- 
mothers, in the square room, could be seen the loaves of wedding 
cake, whose gleaming crests vied with the snow drifts that were 
heaping without. On the shelf above were a pair of long-necked 
decanters that, with the fragile jingling glasses grouped about them, 
echoed of family gatherings beyond the sea. 

All day long a thousand last things for the evening, when the 
neighbors were to come in, were being accomplished by many willing 
hands that made light work. And although there was a great deal 
of laughter and frolic and running against each other in door-ways 
and racing around chimneys, the broth was not spoiled by the many 
cooks, for grandma, wearing her seventy-five years lightly, stood at 
the helm. 

The storm increased as the night fell, the wind roared and 
shrieked among the bare branches of the trees that reached their 
arms about in the gloom and the falling snow, as some of the girls 
peering from the windows said, like witches at their incantations. 

The stream in the gorge below the house holding holiday for 
once, roared and foamed, plunging over the rocks and under the 
mill where the great saw that had rived the boards of which the 
house was made, stood idle, opposite the formidable heap of logs on 
the near hill side. 

The storm detained no guest. The savory odors with which the 
house was filled floated outside through the ever-opening doors to 
greet the tardy comers. The sound of laughter and song rang out 
as far as the firelight gleamed. 

The guests had all arrived. The table was ready for the feast. 
The bride and groom stood before the parson for the simple 



Selections from tJie Writings of Connectictit Wo men. 253 

marriage ceremony to be performed before seating tiiemselves 
opposite grandpa and grandma at the table, when in the preparatory 
silence the outer door was blown back by a mighty gust of wind and 
a strange lone figure was seen standing upon the door stone. 

The aged host went forward with an expression of cordial 
welcome on his kindly face that was quite in harmony with the air 
of ease and grace with which the stranger entered. His words of 
excuse were checked and he was received as an expectant, belated 
and honored guest. 

Ready hands took his heavy, velvet, fur-lined cloak, and he stood 
with his back to the glowing fire, an interested spectator of the mar- 
riage ceremony, and right gallantly led the tearful mother to salute 
the daughter-bride. The merry-making went on, but the stranger 
had fallen into eager conversation with his host. 

His discourse was good to hear, one and another were drawn into 
the ring that encircled him, and soon, wonderful to relate, the great 
house was still save the ring of his even modulated voice. 

He talked of the attainments of the old world and the prospects 
of the new, of the nearing work for the youths and maidens, of the 
mission of the children, until the parent's cheeks glowed with pride 
and the emulous blood was sent tingling through the veins of all 
present. He talked of the future of a great republic in the world, a 
country without a king, governed by the people, and as its resources 
became known, becoming inevitably the receptacle of the overflow 
of the rest of the world. And he eloquently showed how by keep- 
ing the young nation pure the world should be purified, and how a 
finer civilization should grow from the inevitable association, attri- 
tion and crossing of nationalities, followed in time by physical beauty 
not then dreamed of, and a culture as fine and pure and widely dis- 
seminated that only the most poetical imagination could have a vague 
conception of it. 

" A war is inevitable," he said. " You have the honor and privi- 
lege to be accounted worthy by God to be helpers in the great strug- 
gle for American Liberty." 

No one realized at the time that this stranger was plotting high 
treason against the king, that they too might be amenable for giving 
him such wrapt and sympathetic attention. 

Perhaps the seeds of sedition were so subtle as to have been like 
some sweet foreign wine, seemingly innocent in its first breath of 
fragrance, but after a little, when the glass is drained, sip by sip, 



254 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

asserting its stimulating effect. Perhaps they had difficulty in think- 
ing fast enough to keep pace with him, but his words burned into 
their hearts, they could not be forgotten. 

They sat at the table for a long time but no one remembered 
much about the supper upon which so much thought, time and labor 
had been bestowed. They saw before them in a vast word picture 
the future of their country. They apprehended the magnitude of a 
duty to be done and their own personal responsibility in it. Their 
wrongs that had been like a huge pile of fagots were kindled by the 
fire of patriotism never to go out until the country was free. 

They forgot the dessert and the dance, but they remembered the 
sweet ring of a Latin poem that only the parson understood which 
fell from the lips of the guest as they all stood about the tables after 
thanks had been returned. 

" I must go," said the stranger, after a little further talk. 

"Oh, no ! " they cried, " by no means ;" and they grouped them- 
selves about him like a barrier between the cheer within and the 
rigor without. He raised his hand to enforce silence and said : 
" My friends, I came. I have seen this honored New England feast 
day at its best. I have been received by this professed servant of 
God in the spirit of Him whom he serves. I have been welcomed, 
cheered, refreshed, comforted. May I hope to be as cordially 
speeded on my way ? " 

He clasped the silver buckle of his velvet cloak and gave his 
shapely white hand to one and another with some kindly parting 
words. Turning at length to go he said : " You will not forget me; 
when you see my prophecies become living realities before your 
eyes you will perhaps thank me for what may now seem my untimely 
visit. Adieu." 

He was gone. The company looked at each other with eyes 
that were dimmed with tears. They could not speak of him even to 
conjecture regarding his identity, such was the charm that the grace 
of his presence had thrown over his port, his memory and his mes- 
sage. 

When a vague report reached them of a coach and four with a 
solitary passenger posting along the turnpike between Providence 
and Hartford on Thanksgiving day and they were told it passed the 
old tavern at Ashford town at sunset, and dashed past Mansfield 
" Four Corners," five miles to the westward " nigh on upon mid- 
night," they wondered if it were possible that their flaming lights 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 255 

and spark-emitting chimneys had suggested a detour and a halt to the 
mysterious passenger. 

The impression made Iiy that visit was not lost. When the 
youthful bride was called upon to give up her husband at her coun- 
try's call she remembered the words of the stranger as he held her 
hands at parting: " Your path may not be a flowery one, but how- 
ever sharp the thorns in your way may be, you will press on feeling 
honored that you have been accounted worthy to be a helper in such 
a grand contest for liberty." She thought of it again when the news 
reached her of her husband's death on the battle-field, but she never 
flinched. " I might have sank under it," she said, "had I not been 
prepared for the conflict and the reward." 

After the war was over and peace was declared the influence of 
that strange Thanksgiving visit was still felt. That living illustra- 
tion of a riper culture than their narrow world had known, gave an 
impulse to tliose noble susceptible young hearts that otherwise they 
might never have found except in dreams. 

In the most cultivated circles of our land to-day may befound 
descendants of that little company in whose lives that stranger's visit 
was an isolated fact, prolific with great suggestions and grand results, 
so sure is it that truth is a seed and given good soil it will thrive, and 
its end no man hath known. 



THE EVER RESTLESS. 



r.Y SARAH PRATT McLEAN GREENE. 

One staid in his place by the shore, where his fathers had lived, staid he, 
And the faces that knew him smiled, as they might till death should be. 
And one had never a place, but sailed wide on the darkening sea. 

And one had his own fireside, and the love of his heart had he. 
And his children nestled there ; and afar on the tossing sea 
Sailed the wreck of a broken heart — afar on the tossing sea. 

And he who sailed in wrack, by night a dream dreamed he. 
Of lights on the quiet shore, and the love of his heart — ah me ! 
Lost soul ! of the harbor lights and the love of his heart dreamed he. 

And he who staid by the shore — 'tis strange as strange may be, 
But at night his dreaming soul put forth on the restless sea, 
And sailed with a longing dim on the wild and boundless sea. 



256 Selections from the Writings of Connccticnt Women. 



MOON-WIDE. 

BY MARY L. BOLLES BRANCH. 

lChurchmati:\ 

The builders are building a house 

In the field just over the way ; 
The walls are up and the floors are there. 
But the windows and doors are vacant and bare, 

And the wind sweeps through from the bay. 

A window upstairs so mates 

With the one on the other side, 
That, looking up you can see blue sky. 
With maybe a white cloud flitting by. 

Blue sky just a window wide. 

We thought it a window wide 

Till down came the dark and the night, 
When a globe of light from edge to edge 
Shone a perfect round, and poised on the ledge, 

The moon with her splendor bright. 

She entered into the room 

Which had been so empty and bare ; 
She looked at us with her radiant face ; 
She threw on us the charm of her grace. 

And smiled as she tarried there. 

And oh ! you sphere of light 

Who dwellest among the stars, 
Ready to enter with presence bright. 
Did you find another house that night, 

Unhampered by curtains and bars } 

You are large enough for a world, 

You are thousands of miles away ; 
Great bounds in the far blue sky you fill. 
And yet you stood on the window-sill 

And brightened the house like day. 

If we ope but a little door. 

If we leave but a little space. 
All heaven is waiting a way to bless 
With heights and breadths that we cannot guess. 

But its glory floods the place. 

And the sky which seemed window-wide 

May hold many millions of stars, 
A sun by day and a moon by night, — 
And a pathway up to the Infinite, 

So away with the curtains and bars! 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut IVometi. 257 



SONNET. 

■ Hie me, pater optime, fessam, deseris, heu ! '' 
BY LUCY CATLIN r.ULL. 



[Atlantic Mont/ily.'] 



Ere yet in Virgil I could scan or spell, 

Or through the enchanted portal of tliat lay 

Which ravished ancient Rome had found my way, 

How oft with heaving breast I heard thee tell 

Of horrors that the Trojan fleet befell : 

How for a time they were the tempest's prey, 

And how, at last, into a little bay 

Their boats came gliding on the peaceful swell. 

There, though thick shade might threaten from above, 

Was rest and peace, nor any need to roam. 

Alas ! I did not dream how soon for thee. 

Best father, sweetest friend, the quiet cove 

Would stretch its arms, while I, half blind with foam, 

Should still be tossing on the open sea. 



SAINT CECILIA. 



BY MRS. ZADEL BARNES GUSTAFSON. 



[Harper s Monthly. 'X 



" As thou standest there. 

Thou seemest to me like the angel 
That brought the immortal roses 
To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber." 

Longfellow's Golden Legend. 

IN the daily mass of the Roman Catholic Church occurs this 
stately invocation : " Nobis quoquc peccatoribus famulis tuis, 
de multitudine miserationum tuarum sperantibus, partem aliquam 
et societatem donare digneris cum tuis Sanctis Apostolis et martyr- 
ibus : cum Joanne, Stephano, Matthia, Barnaba, Ignatio, Ale.xandro, 
Marcellino, Petro, Felicitate, Perpetua, Agata, Lucia, Agnete, 
CcECiLiA, Anastasia, et omnibus Sanctis" — perpetually commemorat- 
ing among the well beloved names of its martyr saints that of the 
Roman virgin Cecilia. 

The story of this saint is told by various authors, with no very 
noteworthy discrepancies between the different versions ; and however 



25S Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Tf'o/nen. 

its fact and legend may be proportioned, it has sufficient of both the 
beautiful and the marvellous to explain its influence as an inspiration 
in connection with music and the other arts. 

It is supposed that St. Cecilia was bom in Rome somewhere in 
the third century. Her parents were people of high distinction who 
secretly adhered to the Christian faith. Religion and melody seem 
to have composed the gentle temperament of the little Cecilia, 
who from her birth expressed herself in praj'er and song. At a very 
early age she took the vow of chastity, and carried always with her a 
copy of the Gospels hidden in the folds of her dress. As she grew 
to womanhood her musical talent, mental graces, and personal love- 
liness distinguished her even among the gifted and beautiful ; while 
the religious ardor and virginal calm of her life completed a person- 
ality so impressive as to lead naturally to its own lasting eflFect in 
statue, painting, and song. She composed hymns, and sang them in 
a voice of such quality that the angels, it is declared, could not 
remain in heaven when Cecilia was singing, but descended to mid- 
air to listen to her. She could play skillfully on all the musical 
instruments of her day, but was so little content with them that she 
set herself to the invention of something better, and produced the 
organ (whose compass and rich vibration were more suited to express 
her musical fervors), and consecrated it to the worship of God. 

Submitting to her parents' wish, she became, at the age of 
sixteen, the wife of Valerian, a wealthy and worthy young Roman 
noble. She wore sackcloth next her tender skin under her wedding 
dress, and went to her nuptials fasting, and invoking God and the 
angel hosts to give her power to so prevail with her husband that he 
should respect her vow of chastity. On their return from the temple 
to their bridal chamber, Cecilia, first pledging her husband to secrecy, 
told him that she was nightlv and daily guarded by a glorious angel, 
who would not permit a mortal lover to come near her. 

'• I have an angel which thus loveth me 
That with great love, whether I wake or sleep. 
Is ready aye my body for to keep." 

Chaucer, Second Xonn^s Tale. 

Valerian, listening in astonishment, asked to be permitted to see 
this angel, to which she replied that he must first become a Christian 
and be baptized ; and sent him to the venerable Pope St, Urban, 
who succeeded in converting Valerian, after which he hastened back 
to Cecilia, Exquisite music proceeded from his dwelling, and as he 



Selections from tlic Writings of Connecticut Women. 259 

opened the door of his young wife's chamber he beheld an angel 
standing in the midst of a white radiance near to Cecilia, and smiling 
upon her as she knelt in prayer. In his hands were two wreaths or 
crowns of pure white and pure red roses, which had been plucked in 
Paradise, and still held the perfume and dew of the gardens of 
heaven. 

Valerian knelt beside Cecilia, and the angel crowned them with 
these roses, and blessed them, and offered to Valerian the fulfillment 
of his dearest wish in return for having respected the virgin sanctity 
of his wife. \'alerian at once made known that he desired, above 
all things, the conversion and baptism of his beloved brother 
Tiburtius. 

After the angel vanished, Tiburtius came in, and immediately, 
and with surprise — for it was not the time of flowers — noticed the 
odor of the roses, which were invisible to him because of his unbelief. 
Cecilia explained her faith to him, and her husband's conversion, and 
all with so much tenderness and eloquence that Tiburtius was con. 
vinced, sought Urban for baptism, and then joined earnestly in the 
loving labors of Cecilia and Valerian, helping the poor, and comfort- 
ing and encouraging the persecuted Christians. Cecilia herself con- 
verted over four hundred persons to Christianity by her preaching, 
and sent them to Pope Urban for baptism. 

At last the prefect Almachius learned of and endeavored to put 
a stop to this work. He demanded that Valerian her husband and 
his brother should publicly abjure their faith, and make sacrifice to 
Jupiter. 

They firmly refused, and the brothers were seized and cast in 
prison, where their keeper, Maximus, was so impressed with their 
teaching and their behavior in their troubles that he was converted, 
and suffered martyrdom with them. After their execution the 
barbarous prefect, who was covetous of her estates, persecuted the 
virgin widow, who bore herself with such dignity, gentleness and 
patience under the threats of Almachius* that forty persons who 
were present at the scene professed her faith and desired to. share her 
fate. Baffled and angrs", the prefect gave orders that she should be 
taken home and cast into her own bath, after it had been heated to 
the intensest degree. This was done; but when she had been shut 
in " for a day and a night, in which the fires were heated up and made 
to glow and roar their utmost," Cecilia was found unharmed. 

* It is said that there was no prefect of this name. 



26o Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

Almachius then condemned her to death by the sword. Cecilia 
knelt calmly before her executioner, and as he raised the sword 
above her head, she began to sing, and so moving were the tones of 
her sweet voice that he smote unsteadily, and with three blows — the 
limit permitted by the Roman law — had but partially severed the 
head, which drooped meekly, while the martyr continued her dying 
hymn. 

She lived for three days, during which the people flocked in 
crowds around her, while she taught them, and prayed for them, and 
gave away her possessions to the need3^ To St. Urban she gave 
her house in which she had been stricken down, to be converted, 
after her death, into a church or chapel for the service of God. 

At the close of the third day (November 22, a. d. 280), in the 
midst of a tremblingly sung hymn of praise, she expired, and her 
body was buried by Pope Urban and his deacons. 

Her palace was changed, as she had desired, into a temple con- 
secrated to the worship of the Saviour. One of its aisles opens 
into the sudatorium in which her life had been miraculously pre- 
served from the boiling bath, the pipes or calorifers of which re- 
main to this day. This room is held in special veneration. 

During the period from her death to the ninth century — 
marked by municipal disturbances and disastrous Invasions — this 
church was suffered to fall into decay ; but In 821 Pope Paschal I. 
carefully restored It, and transferred to it the remains of Cecilia, 
Valerian and Tiburtlus. 

The manner of finding these sacred relics is told as follows by 
Baring Gould, who, while relating the Cecilia legend with consid- 
erable detail, seasons it throughout with a piquant flavor of incre- 
dulity. 

" In the fourth century," says he, "appeared a Greek religious 
romance on the loves of Cecilia and Valerian, written, like those 
of Chrysanthus and Daria, Julian and Basillssa, in glorification of 
the virginal life, with the purpose of taking the place of the sen- 
sual romances of Daphnis and Chloe, Chereas and Calllrhoe, etc., 
which were then popular. There may have been foundation of 
fact on which the story was built up, but the Roman calendar of 
the fourth century,and the Carthaginian calendar of the fifth, make 
no mention of Cecilia. It Is said, however, that there was a church 
dedicated to St. Cecilia in Rome in the fifth century. In which 
Pope Symmachus held a council In 500. But Symmachus held no 



Selections from the Writings of Connectiact Women. 261 

council in that year ! .... But Pope Paschal I. dreamed that the 
body of the saint lay in the cemeter}' of St. Calixtus, along with 
that of her husband Valerian. He accordingly looked for them, 
and found them, or some bodies — as was probable in the cata- 
combs — which he was pleased to regard as those of Cecilia and 
Valerian, and he translated these relics to the Church of St. 
Cecilia, and founded a monastery in their honor." 

St. Cecilia's chroniclers differ in opinion as to the date of her 
appearance. " Usuardus," says Baring Gould, " makes Cecilia 
suffer under Commodus, and Molanus transfers the martyrdom to 
the reign of Aurelius." 

The " Lives of the Saints, collected from Authentick Records 
of Church History : The Whole Interpreted with suitable Re- 
flections " — an interesting old tome, printed in Gray's Inn, London, 
in 1750 — states that "several authors, considering how much that 
Prince (Alexander Severus) favour'd the Christians, date St. 
Cecily's Death in the Reign of Marcus Aurelius and Commodus, 
joint Emperors from 176 to 180. The Grecians are persuaded she 
suffered in Diocletian's Persecutions, and keep her Festival on the 
same day with the Latins." 

The Rev. Alban Butler, in his Lives of the Saints, gives no 
account of the manner of St. Cecilia's martyrdom, but alludes to 
the dream of Paschal by which her original burial place was dis- 
covered, and mentions that St. Cecily's Church is called " in Tras- 
tevere," or Beyond the Tiber, to distinguish it from the two other 
churches in Rome bearing her name. After acknowledging the 
rare musical gift of St. Cecily, the Rev. Alban Butler delivers 
himself of a quaint little homily — that from some pens would read 
like broad humor — warning the young from the effects of " soft, 
eff^eminate music, which bewitches the senses, dissipates the mind, 
alienates it from serious studies, is the corrupter of the heart, and 
the poison of virtue ! " 

Mr. Hare, Mrs. Clement and Mrs. Jameson all give pleasing 
versions of the St. Cecilia story, Mrs. Jameson's being much the 
fullest account of the various representations of Cecilia in art. 

After the time of Pope Paschal the Church of St. Cecilia again 
sank into ruin, but in 1599 Cardinal Sfondrati had it carefully re- 
paired and redecorated. On this occasion the tomb was re-opened, 
the robe of gold tissue in- which the embalmed body was first 
shrouded still remained, together with the linen cloths steeped in 



262 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 

her blood and wrapped around her feet. Touched by the pathetic 
grace of the recumbent figure, Sfondrati sent for Stephano 
Maderno, a sculptor of celebrated skill, and ordered him to represent 
it in marble. This work, entitled " Cecilia Lying Dead," is per- 
haps the most perfect and beautiful of all bearing her name, and is 
thus described by Sir Charles Bell : " The body lies on its side, the 
limbs a little drawn up ; the hands are delicate and fine ; they are 
not locked, but crossed at the wrist ; the arms are stretched out. 
The drapery is beautifully modelled, and modestly covers the limbs 
... .It is the statue of a lady perfect in form, and affecting from the 
resemblance to reality in the drapery of white marble, and the un- 
spotted appearance of the statue altogether. It lies as no living 
body could lie, and yet correctly, as the dead when left to expire — I 
mean in the gravitation of the limbs." 

The yearly festa of St. Cecilia occurs on the anniversary of her 
martyrdom, November 22, in her church of St. Cecilia in Trastevere, 
which is then thronged with the worshipful and music-loving of 
Rome. The papal choir assemble, and respond to each other in 
these antiphons : 

" And Cecilia, Thy servant, serves Thee, O Lord, even as the bee that is never idle. 

" I bless Thee, O Father of my Lord Jesus Christ, for through Thy Son the fire hath 
been quenched round about me. 

" I asked of the Lord a respite of three days, that I might consecrate my house as a 
church. 

" O Valerian, I have a secret to tell thee : I have for my lover an angel of God, who 
with great jealousy watches over my body. 

" The glorious virgin ever bore the Gospel of Christ in her bosom, and neither by day 
nor night ceased from conversing with God in prayer." 

Then follows the anthem : 

" While the instruments of music were playing, Cecilia sang unto the Lord, and 
said, Let my heart be undefiled, that I may never be confounded. 

" And Valerianus found Cecilia praying in her chamber with an angel." 

The Church of St. Cecilia has not been materially altered since 
its rebuilding by Sfondrati in 1599, though in 1725 Cardinal Doria 
added certain modern decorations, which do not seem to be regarded 
as improvements. The church stands at the " extremity of the Tras- 
tevere, near the Quay of La Ripa Grande." A picturesque house in 
the style of the Middle Ages stands opposite. The frieze of the por- 
tico has mosaic arabesques, with crude portraits of St. Cecilia and 
pictures of other saints, which, together with the mosaics in the 



Selections from the Writings of Cotinecticut Women. 263 

Tribune — a part of the church not touched since Paschal's time — 
are supposed to date from the ninth century. 

Her body since the time Maderno made his expressive copy of it 
has lain in the confession, which is directly under the high altar. 
The tomb of Cardinal Adam of Hertford, a prelate who figured in 
the opposition to Urban VI., is near the entrance of the church, to 
the right. He was the only one saved from a cruel death after the 
triumph of that Pope, England interfering in his behalf His tomb 
is adorned with the English arms — three leopards and a fleur-de-lis 
quartered. 

The beautiful urn of Cardinal Fortiguerra stands also near the 
entrance, to the left. The mosaics in the church ceiling represent 
Christ surrounded by the saints Cecilia, Paschal, and Paul, Valerian, 
Peter, and Agata, with appropriate symbols. Behind the altar is a 
picture of St. Cecilia's martyrdom, supposed to be the work of 
Guido. The painting at the extremity of the right aisle represents 
St. Cecilia appearing in a beautiful garment wrought with jewels, and 
showing the slumbering Pope Urban where he will find her body. 
This is believed to have been painted in the ninth century ; it is the 
last in a series of fine frescoes which were destroyed in the seven- 
teenth century, and were supposed to be the work of Byzantine 
artists, under the direction of Pope Paschal. Fortunately a copy of 
the entire series is preserved in the Barberini Palace Library, and 
forms a dramatic pictorial account of the main incidents of Cecilia's 
life and martyrdom. 

Mrs. Jameson is undecided as to the period when St. Cecilia was 
first regarded as a patron saint of music, but says that previous to 
the fifteenth century she is seldom portrayed with musical instru- 
ments. Her influence upon music is of course that of tradition and 
idea. Belief in her rare musical gift, not only as a singer, composer, 
and inventor of musical instruments, but as one whose powers of 
religious harmony were such as to draw irresistibly to her presence 
angelic audiences, gives to her idea a something which, if vague and 
indeterminable, is still in accord with the aspiring, religious, and 
renunciative moods of musical composition. 

The influence of her idea upon painting and sculpture is, how- 
ever, more easily traced and definite, and that it has been consider- 
able is indicated even in the mere progress of her story. 

Cimabue, Lucas van Leyden, Maderno, Zurburan (in the 
Louvre), Mignard, Raphael, Giulio Romano, Jean Scheff'er, 



264 Selections fro7?i the Writings of Conjiecticut Women. 

Domenichino, and Domenico Zampieri are among the great artists of 
the world who, under the Cecilia inspiration, have portrayed her 
and her story on canvas and in marble in some of the most beautiful 
work to which their names attach. 

Some idea of the surpassing merits of the Cecilia art memorials 
by the last six of the above-mentioned artists may be gained by a 
study of the exquisite outline copies of them in the plates of Le 
Mtisde de Peinture et de Sculpture, par Reveil. 

Says Louis Viardot, in his Les Merveilles de la Peinture: 
" Among Raphaels, we must not omit to mention what is and 
always will be the pearl of the museum at Bologna — the St. Cecilia. 
.... He has represented her in an ecstasy, listening to celestial 
music, and letting fall from her hands a little portable organ on 

which she has begun the concert finished by the angels This 

St. Cecilia was ordered of Raphael in 1 5 1 5 by a lady of Bologna 
named Elena dall' Olio Duglioli, of the house of Bentivoglio, who 
was subsequently canonized ; thus the picture came to Bologna, 
where it has since remained." 

The copies by Carracci and Guido have made this beautiful work 
widely known. Viardot remarks that people educated to admire 
the dazzle, splendor, and wonderful effect of Guido, Guercino, and 
Domenichino, do not at first receive the full impression of Raphael's 
coloring, so much more subdued, but so deep and so full of meaning 
that it comes at last, by a real growth in the observer's mind, to 
impress as the supreme in art. 

In connection with adherence to certain fixed emblems, there is 
much versatility of treatment in the St. Cecilia paintings. Some- 
times she is represented in rich, even regally gorgeous, appareling, 
and again clothed with almost severe simplicity ; with a rich turban, 
or with the celestial red and white roses on her head, or with a 
slender aureole faintly raying upon her hair ; with the organ at her 
side or at her feet, while she looks upward in rapture to the descend- 
ing angels. " Sometimes a dramatic feeling has been given, .... 
as where St. Cecilia is playing to the Virgin, and St. Antony of 
Padua is listening, in Garofalo's work. Or as in a picture by Giulio 
Campi, where St. Cecilia is seated before an organ, attired in the 
rich Florentine costume of the sixteenth century ; near her stands 
St. Catherine, listening to the heavenly strains." 

In her many fine descriptions of the St. Cecilia pictures, Mrs. 
Jameson gives the following: " She is very seldom represented in 



Selections frovi the Writings of Connecticut Women. 265 

the devotional pictures as the virgin martyr only, but I remember 
one striking example ; it is in a picture by Giulio Procaccino. She 
leans back, dying, in the arms of an angel, her hands bound, her 
hair dishevelled, the countenance, raised to heaven, full of tender, 
enthusiastic faith ; one angel draws the weapon from her breast ; 
another, w^eeping, holds the palm and a wreath of roses. This 
picture was evidently painted for a particular locality, being on 
a high, narrow panel, the figure larger than life, and the management 
of the space and the foreshortening very skillful and fine. I know 
not any picture of St. Cecilia sleeping except Alfred Tennyson's : 

'There, in a clear walled city on the sea. 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Bound with white roses, slept St. Cecily. 
An angel looked at her.' 

But the roses brought from paradise should be red and zuhite, 
symbolical of love and purity, for in paradise the two are inseparable, 
and purity without love as impossible as love without purity." 

The idea of St. Cecilia seems to have brooded over art in its 
most richly sensuous development, and to have infu.sed it with a 
fine spiritual sentiment, without exacting any real sacrifice of the 
warm and the splendid. Her idea, though virginal, is without 
austerity; it is young, fresh, and feminine, with the blended charm 
of child and angel. 

In much the same way as it came to music and to art has the 
St. Cecilia influence come to poetry — the third strand of the triple 
inspiration. Her beauty, innocence, and submission, her high yet 
gentle heroism, and her tragic fate, could not appear in the majestic, 
pregnant silence of sculptured marble, in the heart-felt and heart- 
awakening color of Raphael's touch, and be absent from the great 
mosaic of song. 

ST. CECILIA.— A LEGEND. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME EMILE DE GIRARDIN. 

It was a high-born Roman maid, 

Valerian's virgin wife, 
Who, long ago, for Christian faith, 
Gave her pure life. 

She loved to swell God's praise, and sang 

So sweetly day and night. 
That angels, listening, leaned from heav'n 
In mute delight. 



266 Selections from the Writings of Conjtccticut Women. 



And when they came to take her life, 

She sang the hymn of death, 

So that the headsman drew in awe 

His trembling breath. 

O'er her meek head he held the sword 

In hands that stayed its flight, 
Nor, till the tender song was done, 
Dared he to smite. 

Half severed, falling not, but trembling- 

O graceful, piteous sight ! — 
Leaneth her head, as in her statue 
Of marble white. 

E'en as she sank in death, her moans 

From songs could not be told. 
Around her in her tomb they wrapt 
Her robe of gold. 

Her blest remains, long after found. 

Sleep 'neath her altar's ceil. 
Before them, praying from their hearts. 
The people kneel. 

The traveller in Rome is shown 
Where she escaped the flame 
In the fair church now ever known 
By her sweet name. 

And yearly in its sacred walls. 

When comes the winter-time. 
The people glorify this saint 
With song and chime. 

To her all arts yield tribute due; 
Great Raphael makes her fair. 
By her own songs interpreting. 
In colors rare. 

With halo crowned, clasping her lute, 

And beauteously attired, 
Cecilia is the patron saint 
Of the Inspired. 

Virgin, type of harmony. 

She inspires the sacred song. 
And her voice responds to Genius 
From heaven's throng. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 267 

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687. 

JOHN DRYDEN. 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 

This universal frame began ; 

When Nature underneath a heap 
Of jarring atoms lay, 

And could not heave her head, 
The tuneful voice was heard from high, 

Arise, ye more than dead ! 
Then cold, and hot. and moist, and dry. 

In order to their stations leap. 
And Music's power obey. 
From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 

This universal frame began : 

From harmony to harmony, 
Through all the compass of the notes it ran. 
The diapason closing full in man. 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell .' 
When Jubal struck the chorded shell. 

His listening brethren stood around. 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 
Less than a god they thought there could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell, 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot Music raise and quell .' 

The trumpet's loud clangor 

Excites us t^arms. 
With shrill notes of anger. 
And mortal alarms. 
The double double double beat 
Of the thundering drum 
Cries, hark ! the foes come ; 
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat. 

The soft complaining flute 
In dying notes discovers 
The woes of hopeless lovers. 
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. 

Sharp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs, and desperation. 
Fury, frantic indignation. 
Depth of pains, and height of passion. 

For the fair, disdainful dame. 
But oh ! what art can teach, 
What human voice can reach. 
The sacred organ's praise } 

Notes inspiring holy love. 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 

To mend the choirs above. 



268 Selections from the Writings of Cotttiecticut Women. 

Orpheus could lead the savage race ; 
And trees uprooted left their place, 

Sequacious of the lyre ; 
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher ; 

When to her organ vocal breath was given. 
An angel heard, and straight appear'd, 

Mistaking earth for heaven. 

GRAND CHORUS. 

As from the power of sacred lays 

The spheres began to move. 
And sung the great Creator's praise 

To all the bless' d above. 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
The trumpet shall be heard on high. 
The dead shall live, the living die. 
And Music shall untune the sky. 



A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY AT OXFORD. 

JOSEPH ADDISON. 
I. 

Cecilia, whose exalted hymns 

With joy and wonder fill the blest, 
In choirs of warbhng seraphims 

Known and distinguish'd from the rest. 

Attend, harmonious saint, and see 

Thy vocal sons of harmony ; 
Attend, harmonious saint, and hear our pray'rs, 

Enliven all our earthly airs, 
And, as thou sing'st thy God, teach us to sing of thee : 
Tune every string and every tongue ; 
Be thou the Muse and subject of our song. 

II. 

Let all Cecilia's praise proclaim. 
Employ the echo in her name. 
Hark! how the flutes and trumpets raise. 
At bright Cecilia's name, their lays ! 
The organ labors in her praise. 
Cecilia's name does all our numbers grace. 
From ev'ry voice the tuneful accents fly. 
In soaring trebles now it rises high. 
And now it sinks, and dwells upon the base ; 
Cecilia's name through all the notes we sing. 
The work of ev'ry skillful tongue. 

The sound of ev'ry trembling string. 
The sound and trump of every song. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 269 

III. 

Forever consecrate the day 
To music and Cecilia ; 
Music, tlie greatest good that mortals l^now, 
And all of heav'n we have below : 
Music can noble hints impart, 
Engender fury, kindle love ; 
With unsuspected eloquence can move 
And manage all the man with secret art. 

When Orpheus strikes the trembling lyre. 
The streams stand still, the stones admire, 
The list'ning savages advance. 

The wolf and lamb around him trip. 
The bears in awkward measures leap. 
And tigers mingle in the dance. 
The moving woods attended as he played, 
And Rhodope was left without a shade. 

IV. 

Music religious hearts inspires ; 

It wakes the soul, and lifts it high, 
And wings it with sublime desires. 
And fits it to bespeak the Diety. 
The Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue. 
And seems well pleased and courted with the song. 
Soft moving sounds and heav'nly airs 
Give force to every word, and recommend our pray'rs. 
When time itself shall be no more, 

And all things in confusion hurl'd. 
Music shall then exert its pow'r. 
And sound survive the ruins of the world. 
Then saints and angels shall agree 
In one eternal jubilee ; 
All heav'n shall echo with their hymns divine. 

And God himself with pleasure see 
The whole creation in a chorus join. 

CHORUS. 

Consecrate the place and day 
To music and Cecilia. 
Let no rovgh winds approach, nor dare 

Invade the hallo^u'd bounds. 
Nor rudely shake the tuneful air. 

Nor spoil the fleeting sounds. 
Nor mournful sigh nor groan be heard. 

But gladness dwell on ev'ry tongue ; 
Whilst all, with -voice and strings prepared. 

Keep up the loud harmonious song. 
And imitate the blest above. 

In joy and harmony and love. 



2/0 Selections from the Writuigs of ConnectictU Women. 



ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 

ALEXANDER POPE. 

Descend, ye Nine ! descend and sing, 
The breathing instruments inspire ; 
Wal<e into voice each silent string. 
And sweep the sounding lyre ! 
In a sadly pleasing strain 
Let the warbling lute complain ; 
Let the loud trumpet sound 
Till the roofs all around 
The shrill echoes rebound ; 
While in more lengthen'd notes, and slow, 
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. 
Hark ! the numbers soft and clear 
Gently steal upon the ear ; 
Now louder and yet louder rise. 
And fill with spreading sounds the skies. 
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes. 
In broken air trembling the wild music floats ; 
Till by degrees, remote and small. 
The strains decay. 
And melt away 
In a dying, dying fall. 

By music minds an equal temper know, 
Nor swell too high nor sink too low. 
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, 
Music her soft assuasive voice applies ; 

Or when the soul is press'd with cares. 
Exalts her in enlivening airs. 
Warriors she fires with animated sounds, 
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds ; 
Melancholy hfts her head, 
Morpheus rouses from his bed. 
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes. 
Listening Envy drops her snakes ; 
Intestine War no more our passions wage, 
And giddy Factions bear away their rage. 

But when our country's cause provokes to arms. 
How martial music every bosom warms ! 
So when the first bold vessel dared the seas. 
High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain. 
While Argo saw her kindred trees 
Descend from Pelion to the main : 
Transported demigods stood round. 
And men grew heroes at the sound. 
Inflamed with glory's charms : 
Each chief his sevenfold shield display 'd. 
And half unsheath'd the shining blade ; 
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, 
To arms ! to arms ! to arms \ 



Selections frovi the Writings of Connecticiit Women. 271 

But when through all the infernal bounds, 
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, 
Love, strong as death, the poet led 
To the pale nations of the dead. 
What sounds were heard. 
What scenes appear'd, 

O'er all the dreary coasts ! 
Dreadful gleams, 
Dismal screams. 
Fires that glow, 
Shrieks of woe. 
Sullen moans. 
Hollow groans. 
And cries of tortured ghosts ! — 
But hark ! he strikes the golden lyre. 
And see ! the tortured ghosts respire. 
See shady forms advance ! 
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still, 
Ixion rests upon his wheel. 
And the pale spectres dance ; 
The Furies sink upon their iron beds. 
And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads. 

By the streams that ever flow. 

By the fragrant winds that blow 
O'er the Elysian flowers ; 

By those happy souls that dwell 

In yellow meads of asphodel. 
Or amaranthine bowers ; 

By the heroes' armed shades 

Glittering through the gloomy glades ; 

By the youths that died for love. 

Wandering in the myrtle grove — 
Restore, restore Eurydice to life ; 
Oh, take the husband, or restore the wife ! 

He sung, and hell consented 
To hear the poet's prayer; 

Stern Proserpine relented. 
And gave him back the fair. 

Thus song could prevail 

O'er death and o'er hell, 
A conquest how hard and how glorious ! 

Though fate had fast bound her. 

With Styx nine times round her. 
Yet music and love were victorious. 

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes ; 
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies. 
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move ? 
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. 

Now under hanging mountains. 

Beside the falls of fountains, 

Or where Hebrus wanders. 

Rolling in meanders. 



272 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



All alone, 

Unheard, unknown, 
He makes his moan ; 
And calls her ghost, 
For ever, ever, ever lost ! 
Now with furies surrounded. 
Despairing, confounded, 
He trembles, he glows. 
Amidst Rhodope's snows : 
See ! wild as the winds o'er the desert, he flies ; 
Hark ! Haemus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries- 

Ah ! see, he dies ! 
Yet e'en in death Eurydice he sung, 
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue; 
Eurydice the woods, 
Eurydice the floods, 
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains, rung. 

Music the fiercest grief can charm, 
And fate's severest rage disarm ; 
Music can soften pain to ease. 
And make despair and madness please ; 
Our joys below it can improve. 
And antedate the bliss above. 
This the divine Cecilia found. 
And to her Maker's praise confined the sound. 
When the full organ joins the tuneful choir, 

The immortal powers incline their ear; 
Borne on the swelling notes, our souls aspire, 
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire. 

And angels lean from heaven to hear. 
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell ; 
To bright Cecilia greater power is given : 
His numbers raised a shade from hell, 
Her's lift the soul to heaven. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 2 'j-i, 

THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER 

From its Sources to the Sea. 



BY EMMA SHAW. 



Oh, mighty river, crystal clear. 

Flowing, flowing, year after year. 

No time to rest, no time to stay, 

What tidings bring you from away? 

On vast Superior's northern shore 

Do still the Storm -god's thunders roar 

Till distant heights catch up the sound 

And send sonorous echoes round, 

Till, sounding out, now here, now there. 

The mighty chorus fills the air? — 

What tidings from the pictured-coast 

Whose " Castle" * guards a demon-ghost? 

Are still unfurled the rocky sails t 

Which bid defiance to the gales? 

Canst tell us if the " Empress "t fair 

Still stands, a rocky siren, there ; 

And if the elves still make their home 

Beneath " Le Portail's " t sand-stone dome ? 

Hast in the gloomy ■' chapel " t stayed. 

While mournful winds sad dirges played 

For ships, which, off that fatal shore. 

Went down and ne'er were heard of more ? - 

To you alone, O mighty stream ! 

Reflecting now the moon's pale beam 

And all the wondrous starry train 

Which shine alike o'er isle and main ; 

Or, bright beneath the sinking sun 

That ruddy grows when day is done, — 

To you, alone, is known the race 

Who first, in Nature's resting-place 

On Royale Isle and Keweenaw, 

The mineral wealth with wonder saw. 

Canst tell us whence and how they came. 

Those ancient ones whom none can name ? 

Then, later, who like you has known 

The struggles of those " Fathers " lone 

Who gave their lives to plant the cross 

(Counting it rather gain than loss) 



[EJucation.^ 



* A place is pointed out on Thunder Cape where the cliffs outlined against the horizon bear some resemblance to a 
gigantic recumbent figure. This, according to Indian tradition, w.as the Storm-god, who was believed to hold undis- 
puted sway in all that region. 

t The rocks along the pictured shore of Lake Superior are carved by the action of the elements into various shapes. 
At one place there is an exact representation of a sloop with sails all set. The " Empress "' is a gigantic profile of a 
woman's face. About this region cluster many aboriginal legends, which people the caves with elves, demons, etc. 



2 74 Selections from the Writings of Cojinecticut Women. 

On far-off shore and western isle ? 

What legends quaint hast heard, erstwhile. 

Of dusky maid and stalwart brave 

Who, — up-borne on Superior's wave, — 

Sailed westward in their birch canoe, 

Watched o'er by fabled Manitou ? — 

Canst sing for us a voyageur's song ? 

Their notes have been forgotten long ; 

And years and years have passed away 

Since, o'er the waves, their voices gay 

Rang blithely out in quaint old rhyme 

To which their oars kept perfect time. 

Wilt tell us now, and tell us true. 

How all the water at the " Soo " 

Finds outlet through such shallow bed ? 

Small wonder, that with breakers dread 

The boiling, seething waters pour 

O'er jagged rocks which line the shore 

In flood so mad that, far and wide 

Upon the waves white foam-wreaths ride! — 

For rest alone dost steal away 

And linger long in Georgian Bay 

Among her thousand lonely isles. 

Made beauteous by Nature's smiles .' 

Isles where his home the wild gull makes ; 

His cry alone the stillness breaks ! — 

Hast lingered in thine eastward march 

Beneath the " Giant Fairies" * arch. 

Or stopped to see if ghosts still keep 

Their nightly watch at " Lover's Leap " ? 

Listened to hear the sunset gun 

At Mackinac, when day was done ? 

Fair Mackinac ! who proudly takes 

Her place, — " Gibraltar of the Lakes," — 

Where Michigan comes thro' the strait 

The flood to meet at Huron's gate. 

As 'twixt her shores the two unite, 

Then onward flow, all sparkling bright, 

Adown the peaceful river Claire, — 

That's bordered now with homesteads fair, — 

Across the lake, to find in sight 

Above Fort Wayne, our ensign bright. 

Dost bring, with swiftest fancy, back 

The long-lost days of Pontiac ? 

Dost hear again sad Logan's plaint 

Come down the years, in echoes faint ; 

And brave Tecumseh's warlike boast 

To meet, alone, an arm6d host "> 

When, left behind that narrow strait. 

You enter next fair Erie's gate 

* Mackinac was claimed by tlie aborigines to be the abode of the Giant Fairies ; and numberiess weird traditions 
are told of " Arch Rock," " Lover's Leap," and similar formations which abound on this beautiful " Gem of the 
Straits." 



Selections from ike Writings of Connecticut Women. 275 

Does Perry's memory with you stay 

While lingering at Put-in Bay ? 

Or, eastward still, you stop a while 

Amidst the rocks at Kelley's Isle,* 

Canst read for us the Indian lore 

Which learned minds have pondered o'er ? 

Canst tell how, on each rocky face, 

Those signs and symbols found their place ? 

Wilt tell us where, beneath the wave. 

The luckless Griffin t found a grave? 

And how and where, — for no one knows, — 

They met their fate, those fine bateaux 

Which, sent to conquer Pontiac, 

Set bravely out, but ne'er came back? 

To learn of you in vain we try ; 

To all our words comes no reply ! 

A river now, you hurry on 

As if impatient to be gone ; 

And fast, and faster, on you whirl 

With foaming haste and angry swirl. 

Till, o'er the rocks with one mad leap 

You go, and still right onward sweep. 

Tho' loud to you Niagara calls. 

Deaf to the thunder of the falls 

You roll your sea-green waves along. 

Still speeding on with current strong. 

On either hand gray cliffs look down ; 

Their adamantine faces frown 

As, presently, you leave behind 

Your narrow bounds, and unconfined 

And peaceful now, in broader lake 

The Indian name Ontario take. 

" The beautiful," it signifies; 

And, surely, all the name implies 

You are to me. Still on you glide. 

Mile after mile, until, — less wide, — 
You stop a bit at Kingston Bay; 
Then, narrowing, you steal away 

From all the wondrous beauty there 
Of wooded shore and islets fair. 
Untempted by Dame Nature's wiles. 
You stop not midst the Thousand Isles, 
But still press on, a river free. 
Maddened with haste to reach the sea. 
By Long-Sault Rapids and Lachine 
You gallop on with frantic mien ; 
For e'en the Isle of Montreal 
You really make no pause at all 
(Tho' bold it stands, full in your track 
As if to hdld the torrent back) ; 
But claiming all the tribute due 
From Ottawa and Richelieu, 

* At Kelley's Isle are the best specimens of Indian liieroglyphics to be found anywhere in the region, 
t The Griffin was the first vessel on the lakes. She was lost somewhere in this vicinity. 



2 76 Sclectiojis from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 



You wind beneath historic heights 

Made memorable by many fights ; 

Your rolling Hood you hold in check 

A moment, ere you leave Quebec, — 

Its plains where brave men fought and fell. 

Its old and time-worn citadel. 

And Montmorency's silv'ry veil 

Half-screening cliffs which none can scale,— 

Then hasten on with tireless speed. 

On either side the banks recede ; 

Till wild and lonely Saguenay 

Comes down to you from Ha-Ha Bay ; 

Mingling its waters. — inky black, — 

With yours, at ancient Tadousac. 

Glad or sorry at the meeting 

Both press on : there's no retreating ! 

So, swept on with resistless force. 

You still pursue your seaward course ; 

And when the breakers loudly roar 

Upon the bleak Atlantic shore, 

Where mountain billows rise and swell, 

We say, " St. Lawrence, fare thee well !" 



'SPACIALLY JIM. 

BY BESSIE MORGAN. 

I was mighty good lookin' when I was young, 

Peart an' black-eyed an' slim, 
With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 
Spacially Jim. 

The likeliest one of 'em all was he, 

Chipper an' han'some an' trim, 
But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowd 
'Spacially Jim. 

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men 

An' I wouldn't take stock in /n'ln ! 
But they kep' on a-comin' in spite o' my talk 
'Spacially Jim. 

I got so tired o' havin' 'em round 

('Spacially Jim !) 
I made up my mind I'd settle down. 
An' take up with him. 

So we was married one Sunday in church, 

'Twas crowded full to the brim, 
'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all 
'Spacially Jim ! 



\Century.\ 



Selections from the Writings of Connectictit Women. 277 



MY POSSIBLE SELF. 

BY DELIA LYMAN PORTER. 

[Ansov D. F. Randolbh if Co.\ 

1HAVE a kind of Doppelgdngcr" said Miss Emily. 
"A what?" asked Hessie. 
"A Doppelganger ! That is what the Germans call the 
' other self,' which, they think, accompanies the real one." 

"Oh, Miss Emily!" exclaimed Hessie in despair, "do tell me 
in plain English what you mean." 

Hessie was Miss Emily's shadow, the one human being who was 
fond enough of her to willingly hear her talk by the hour. The 
attraction of that fresh young life of seventeen for a middle-aged 
woman of thirty-eight was a mystery to Miss Emily, but she 
enjoyed it keenly, and was in the habit of talking as freely to her as 
if she were soliloquizing. They were sitting, that stormy evening in 
late November, not by a glowing open fire, where people in stories 
are always so comfortably ensconced, but by a plain black hole in 
the floor, through which nevertheless came warmth, if not cheer. 
The latter the student lamp, the books, and their own tongues had 
to supply. 

Neither had spoken for fifteen minutes, when the unwonted 
silence was broken by Miss Emily's remark: 

"My Doppelganger," she began negatively to explain, "is not 
like Julian Hawthorne's double, of which I heard the other day, 
which has been seen by his friends on several occasions, which 
appears exactly like him, and yet is not he, for he is somewhere 
else." 

"Oh, Miss Emily !" said unbelieving Hessie, deprecatingly. 

" Neither is she like the Dr. Jekyll part of me," continued Miss 
Emily, " for she does not leave the rest of me an unadulterated 
residuum of wickedness like Mr. Hyde. Neither is she exactly like 
the spirit in Dipsychus." 

" What is Dipsychus?" asked Hessie. 

" Dipsychus is the title of a remarkable though unfinished poem 
by Arthur Hugh Clough," replied she, " consisting of a dialogue 
between the nobler, spiritual part of a man and his worldly, selfish, 
material part ; but mine is not like either." 



278 Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women, 

" Then what is it like ? " asked Hessie, a little weary of this long 
introduction. 

" She has had an extraordinary influence on my life ever since I 
first became aware of her existence thirteen years ago," continued 
Miss Emily. " She has not left me since, even for a day. She is 
sometimes a discouragement, but more often an incentive, and at all 
times makes me realize the seriousness and value of life as I never 
did before. And you have one, too, Hessie." 

"Oh, Miss Emily, what {lo you mean?" asked poor Hessie. 

" My Possible Self ! — my best possible self." 

" Oh," said Hessie, a light breaking over her, " I see." 

" Now, if you want a long story, I will tell you where I first saw 
her," continued Miss Emily. 

" Indeed I do ! " said Hessie, as she took a more comfortable 
position on the rug at her friend's feet, looking up in her face with 
her head propped on her elbow. " Now begin." 

" I remember perfectly the circumstances under which I met her, 
thirteen years ago," began Miss Emily. " It was on a beautiful 
Sunday afternoon in late September that I sat alone in the Triangle, 
reading a sermon of Horace Bushnell's." 

"What is the Triangle?" interpolated Hessie. 

"It is a small creviced nook on the edge of Paradise Island, 
where I spent that summer," she explained. " It was shut in on 
two sides by high rocks, and on the third opened to the blue waters 
of the Sound. It was my favorite retreat when I wanted to be shut 
out from all the world. The sermon was the one which I have 
heard called one of the greatest of this century, and is entitled, 
' Every Man's Life a Plan of God's.' You must read it, Hessie. 
It shows that when we were born, God had for each of our lives a 
plan, the best possible, which each one of us, with our own peculiar 
limitations both of heredity and early training, can live, and our 
highest purpose should be to follow this plan of God's for us." 

" I should like to read it," said Hessie. 

" Dr. Bushnell puts it all in a wonderful way," said Miss Emily, 
"and it made a great impression on me. As I shut my book that 
afternoon and looked out on the water at my feet, I gave myself up 
to the train of thought which the sermon suggested, and, all at once, 
like a flash of lightning, I saw My Possible Self ! There she 
stood, as clearly defined to my mental sight as the black rock edge 
against the blue sky," 



Selections front the Writings of Connecticut Women. 279 

" What was she like ?" said Hessie. 

" In personal appearance she was like me, and yet unlike. Her 
build was the same, but her physique far stronger than mine, and 
almost perfect. She looked strong enough to carry on a great 
work in the world, and the contrast gave me a pang as I thought of 
the health I had squandered in late hours and foolish dissipation the 
first winter I came out in society. I was not really delicate thirteen 
years ago, but I had lived up to every inch of my vitality, and conse- 
quently had no reserve force for any emergency, though originally 
inheriting an iron constitution. The least extra exertion wearied 
me, so it was a pang indeed which I received from the sight of the 
vigor and fine physical perfection of My Possible Self." 

" But her face must have been like yours?" said Hessie. 

" It was, and yet different. The eyes were the same in shape 
and color, but the expression had a certain nameless something in it 
which mine lacked, and which made hers beautiful. It was a look 
as of seeing things afar off, and of a perfect trust in something or 
somebody. The other most dissimilar feature was the mouth— a 
wonderful combination of sweetness and firmness. I knew my own 
lips were weak, undecided. My Possible Self's brow, too, was 
smooth as satin ; not a wrinkle or a crow's foot. Mine I brought 
on myself, Hessie, years ago, by an early contracted habit of worry- 
ing whenever things went wrong. I sighed as I saw how unnecessary 
and detrimental were those self-imposed disfigurements of mine." 

" She must have been beautiful," said Hessie. 

" Indeed, she was not ; for she had my despised red hair and my 
snub nose and the large finger-joints which have always been such a 
trial to me, you know ; but it was a perfect revelation to me to see 
how the points which I have mentioned almost counterbalanced the 
inherited blemishes. Her whole appearance was so attractive it 
made me for a moment unhappy, not because of wounded vanity at 
the contrast (for that was not one of my many failings), but because 
I saw how much could be done in the world by so attractive a 
woman. The more personal charm, the more influence in reaching 
others for good. But beside this revelation of her outward appear- 
ance, I suddenly seemed to acquire a knowledge of her mental and 
spiritual qualities and of her past life." 

" How could you ?" said Hessie, puzzled. 

" I do not know," said Miss Emily ; " but again, like a Hash of 
lightning, I seemed to have My Possible Self burned into my 



28o Selections frofn the Writings of Connecticut Womeft. 

understanding. I saw with pleasure that she still had my light- 
hearted, jolly, easy-going temperament, but what had become lazi- 
ness and shallowness with me, My Possible Self had, by diligent 
efforts, developed into a peaceful quietness of manner and a sympa- 
thetic, genuine cheeriness which made her a sunbeam wherever she 
went. I saw, too, that she still had my natural likes and dislikes, 
though the latter were much less aggressive than in my case. She 
had in general no ' edges,' such as I have always had in abundance, 
you know." 

" Is that why you call yourself a social polygon. Miss Emily?" 
asked Hessie, with a laugh. 

" Yes," said she, with another ; " for I have so many decided likes 
and dislikes which keep thrusting themselves out and cutting into 
people." 

" Poh ! " said Hessie. 

" My Possible Self was as extravagantly fond of music as I, 
but had done so much more with it. Instead of trifling, as most 
school-girls do, and as I had, with the musical advantages my 
generous parents had showered upon me, she had improved every 
one, and, having mastered the natural disinclination to persevering 
hard work, which I always ascribed to my Southern ancestry, the 
result was to me simply amazing. Her voice, no better than mine 
at the start, was wonderfully developed, and besides its vastly 
superior technique, had a sweetness of tone which I knew must 
come from some fount of spiritual harmony within. Mine lacked 
her sympathetic tone. She had gained something from life which I 
had not." 

"Was she as fond of poetry and reading as you ?" asked Hessie. 

"Yes," said she; " but what a difference in the result on her 
mind and mine ! She had curbed her (and my) natural taste for 
romance and fiction, and had allowed it but a scanty gratification, 
which was as nothing compared with her solid reading. I remem- 
bered that, when I was thirteen years old, some one had told me 
what an amount of history I would know in ten years if I read it 
for fifteen minutes every day. I wearied of the experiment in three 
months. My Possible Self had persevered until then, her twenty- 
fifth year — and had proved that ' many a mickle makes a muckle ' 
by the fact that she was then able to teach history as a specialty." 

" I suppose she was a great linguist, too," said Hessie, knowing 
her friend's weak point. 



Selections from the Writings of Connecticut Women. 281 

" No," answered Miss Emily, " I was comforted to see that she 
had done nothing with the languages. She had, like myself, an 
aversion to them, and after several unsuccessful attempts, had wisely 
decided to put her energies where she could do her best work. 

" Her spiritual nature was so much more developed than my 
own that, had it not been for the unmistakable physical resemblance, 
I could not have believed that that fair soul was My Possible Self. 

"The great turning-point in her spiritual life, as in my own, was 
at twenty years of age. Then my father lost his large fortune, and 
we children were obliged to earn our own support. I took it very 
hard, and my complaints and bewailings added greatly to the sorrows 
of my parents. I tried in several ways to earn a living, but my 
previous unthorough habits of study made my expensive education 
of little practical use in earning money. My first attempts — giving 
singing lessons and writing for the press — were failures, and I was 
humiliated to find that my cake-making and preserves brought me 
in more money than either." 

" What could your Possible Self do?" asked Hessie. 

" She would have been in great demand, with her singing and 
history, and a dozen other things to back, and her unselfish cheer- 
fulness would have made her a joy and a constant support to my 
parents. What misery I felt at this revelation of what I ' might 
have been ' to my family ! But it was then too late, for my dear 
father had died the year before. Oh, Hessie, do not wait so long as 
I did to know your Possible Self, and what she might do in your 
place to make those around you happy ! 

"So all my life ran before me, and I saw what My Possible 
Self had made out of it — the conversational powers she had 
cultivated, and in which my own carelessness and laziness had made 
me so sadly deficient ; the books she had read and I had only begun 
and never finished ; the noble friends she had made and I had let 
slip, or had not had the character to attract ; the many opportunities 
to do good which I had neglected and she had eagerly embraced, 
and the long troop of joys which came to her in their wake ; the 
people she had helped ; the same circumstances in our lives which 
her way of life had turned into blessings and mine into trials ; even 
the pleasures of life had brought more to her than to me, for I had 
unconsciously frittered away on many worthless objects both my 
capacity for enjoyment and my naturally warm afifections. All this 
wealth of life was hers, though she was born with the same physique, 



282 Selections from the Writings of Co7inecticut Women. 

temperament, and natural tastes as mine, and though her early years 
were passed among the same people and brought her the same early 
training. I could not feel that this difference was the result of any- 
thing but my own fault. 

"As I mused over these lost opportunities, and the fatal habit I 
had acquired of preferring present pleasure to sacrifice for future 
good, a deep feeling of misery , overcame me. My life seemed 
wasted and utterly good for nothing. I said aloud : ' Truly, I know 
of no worse hell than that a soul which has spent a wasted life 
should be everlastingly confronted with its Possible Self for all 
eternity.' " 

" Oh, Miss Emily ! " said Hessie, in a low, awe-struck tone. 

" The sun had set by that time, and it was growing cold and 
dark, but still I sat in my rocky niche absorbed in these sad 
thoughts. I do not know how long I should have sat there, but, as 
the first star shone down on my troubled face, a ray of hope entered 
my heart, for I seemed to see another Possible Self, not bright 
and almost perfect, like the first, but still so much beyond my 
present self that my heart leaped at the thought that it was yet 
possible for me to attain it. It was the personification of the best 
self possible to me from that hour. 

" I found my way over the rocks to our island cottage that 
night, feeling almost as if I had had a revelation from God, Hessie. 
Since then not one day has My Possible Self left me. Every day 
I try to do what she would do when annoyances and cares harass 
me ; to think how sunshiny she would be under those same circum- 
stances. 

" In my efforts for self-improvement, in meeting the great as 
well as the small trials of life, and in my life work I try to live up to 
that revelation of My Possible Self." 

" I, too, must have a Possible Self," said Hessie, thoughtfully, 
and with a far-away look in her sweet brown eyes. 

" Yes, dear, and so has everyone, no matter how lowly. If we 
all made it the purpose of our lives to attain to Our Possible 
Selves, which is only another name for God's plan for our lives, 
what a heaven this world would be ! " 



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